WINGS 

TALES  OF  THE  PSYCHIC 


WINGS 

TALES  OF  THE  PSYCHIC 


BY 

ACHMED    ABDULLAH 

Author  of  "The  Trail  of  the  Beast" 
"The  Honorable  Gentleman  and  Others" 
"The  Man  On  Horseback,"  Etc.,  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

THE  JAMES  A.  McCANN  COMPANY 
1920 


Copyright  1920  by 
THE  JAMES  A.  McCANN  COMPANY 

All  Rights  Reserved 


Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


To  MY 
F.    ELLIOT    CABOT 


"Lonely!   Why   should 
I  feel  lonely?    Is  not 
our  planet  in  the 
Milky  Way?" 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 
I 


WINGS    .     .     .     :•-,    .«.    >.    >•-    >     > 

DISAPPOINTMENT    .:    ..     >:     •:    >     >:  >:  > 

To  BE  ACCOUNTED  FOR     .:    ..:    >:     •:  >  •       63 

TARTAR  .      <    >j    >:    >      •;    >:    w     •  >  - 

RENUNCIATION  .     .     >     •:     •     x     •  •  •     IO3 

KRISHNAVANA,  DESTROYER  OF  SOULS  .  .     115 

THAT  HAUNTING  THING  ....  ..  .-     1.35 

THE  MAN  WHO  LOST  CASTE  .     ...    ...  .  ..     IS3 

SILENCE       ,     ...    >     .-;    *:    w    -•:    w  a  !*      l63 

KHIZR      .-     >:     >:     [•:     >i     w     M     >      W  M  •      l83 

FEAR       ,    .    >:    *    w    w    •<    ?    m  '*  > 

LIGHT          >:    >:    M    •    BB-   m .  .oa    ai  w  • 


WINGS 

TALES  OF  THE  PSYCHIC 


WINGS 
I 

THAT  Saturday  night  at  the  height  of  the  Lon 
don  season  when  Martab  Singh,  Maharaja  of  Oney- 
J)ore,  made  his  initial  bow  to  Belgravia  in  the  salon 
bf  the  Dowager  Duchess  of  Shropshire,  properly 
introduced  and  vouched  for  by  Sir  James  Spottis- 
woode  of  the  India  Office,  there  wasn't  a  man  in  the 
great  scarlet  and  purple  room,  nor  woman  either, 
who  did  not  look  up  quite  automatically  when  the 
big,  bearded,  turbaned  figure  crossed  the  threshold 
and  bent  over  the  wrinkled,  perfumed  hand  of  Her 
Grace. 

There  wasn't  a  person  in  that  room — and  people 
of  all  classes  crowded  the  gossipy  old  duchess's 
Saturday  night  at  homes,  from  recently  knighted, 
pouchy,  sharp-voiced  barristers  to  gentlemen  of  the 
bench  who  hid  their  baldness  and  their  forensic 
wisdom  under  tremendous,  dusty  wigs;  from  the 
latest  East  African  explorer  returned  from  a  six- 

1 


2  .  WINGS 

months'  unnecessary  slaughter,  to  the  stolidest  nov 
elist  of  mid-Victorian  respectability;  from  the  most 
Parisianized  Londoner  to  the  most  Anglified  Pari 
sian;  from  the  latest  shouting  evangelist  out  of  the 
State  of  Wisconsin  to  the  ungodly  Yorkshire  peer 
who  had  varied  the  monotony  of  last  year's  mar 
riage  to,  and  divorce  from,  a  Sussex  dairymaid  by 
this  year's  elopement  with  a  Gaiety  chorus-girl; 
from  Mayfair  Dives  to  Soho  Lazarus — there  wasn't 
a  person  in  all  that  mixed  assembly  who  did  not  feel 
a  shiver  of  expectation  as  the  raja  entered. 

Expectation  of  something. 

Waiting  tensely,  dramatically,  silently,  for  some 
thing. 

"Not  waiting  for  something  to  happen,"  Charlie 
Thorneycroft  put  it.  "Rather  waiting  for  some 
thing  that  had  already  happened,  you  know.  Which 
of  course  is  infernal  rot  and  asinine  drivel.  For 
how  in  the  name  of  my  canonized  great-grandaunt 
can  you  wait  for  the  future  of  the  past  tense?  But 
— there  you  are !" 

And  Thorneycroft,  of  London,  Calcutta,  Pesha 
war,  Melbourne,  Capetown,  and  the  British  Empire 
in  general,  vaguely  attached  to  some  mythical  diplo 
matic  bureau  in  some  unknown  diplomatic  capacity, 


WINGS  3 

would  drop  his  monocle  and  look  up  with  a  sharp, 
challenging  stare  of  his  ironic  gray  eyes,  as  if  ex 
pecting  you  to  contradict  him. 

It  was  not  that  the  presence  of  a  raja,  or  any 
other  East  Indian  potentate  or  near-potentate  was 
an  unusual  occurrence  in  London.  Rajas  are  more 
common  there  than  Nevada  plutocrats  at  a  Florida 
resort,  or  black-cocks  on  a  Yorkshire  moor.  Lon 
don  is  the  capital  of  a  motley  and  picturesque  em 
pire,  and  pink  turbans  soften  the  foggy,  sulfurous 
drab  of  Fleet  Street;  lavender  turbans  bob  up  and 
down  the  human  eddy  of  the  Burlington  Arcade; 
green  and  red  and  white  turbans  blotch  the  sober, 
workaday  atmosphere  of  East  Croydon  and 
Pimlico. 

Nor  was  it  anything  in  Martab  Singh's  appear 
ance  or  reputation. 

For,  as  to  the  first,  he  was  good-looking  in  rather 
a  heavy,  simple,  bovine  fashion,  with  two  hundred 
pounds  of  flesh  and  brawn  carried  by  his  six  foot 
two  of  height,  his  great,  staring,  thick-fringed, 
opaque  eyes,  his  melancholy  smile,  and  his  magnifi 
cent  beard,  dyed  red  with  henna,  which  was  split 
from  the  chin  down  the  center  and  then  curled  up 
on  either  side  of  his  face  so  that  the  points,  which 


4  WINGS 

touched  his  ridiculously  small  ears,  looked  like  the 
horns  of  a  combative  ram. 

And  as  to  his  reputation  and  standing,  Sir  James 
Spottiswoode  had  vouched  for  it. 

There  was  also  Charlie  Thorneycroft's  drawling, 
slightly  saturnine  corroboration. 

'Tremendously  swanky  beggar  in  his  own  coun 
try/*  he  said  to  pretty,  violet-eyed  Victoria  de 
Rensen.  "Descendant  of  the  flame  on  his  father's 
side,  and  related  to  the  moon  on  the  bally  distaff. 
Cousin  to  Vishnu,  Shiva,  Doorgha,  and  what-not, 
and  college  chum  to  all  the  assorted  and  hideous 
divinities  of  the  Hindu  heaven.  His  principality  is 
small,  barren,  poor.  A  mixture  of  rocks  and  flies 
and  hairy  and  murderous  natives.  But  he  is  the 
very  biggest  among  the  bigwigs  of  India.  To  two 
hundred  million  benighted  Hindus  he  is  the  deity — 
Brahm,  what? — all  the  gods  rolled  into  one  and 
topped  by  a  jolly,  crimson  caste-mark.  He's  the 
gods'  earthly  representative,  you  know,  Vic  darling. 
Not  only  that.  For" — he  dropped  his  voice  to  a 
flat  whisper — "this  is  the  first  time  in  the  history 
of  the  world — hang  it,  before  the  history  of  the 
world — that  a  Maharaja  of  Oneypore  has  left  his 
native  soil." 


WINGS  5 

"Why  shouldn't  he?" 

"Because  by  leaving  India  he  pollutes  his  soul,  he 
loses  caste.  And  that's  just  why  I  wonder — " 

"What?" 

"Oh,  nothing!" 

Quite  suddenly  he  looked  up,  and  his  long,  white 
fingers  gripped  the  girl's  arm  nervously. 

"Did  you  feel — it?"  he  whispered. 

There  was  no  need  for  an  answer.  Nor,  really, 
had  there  been  need  for  the  question  in  the  first 
place. 

For,  as  the  raja,  arm  in  arm  with  Sir  James 
Spottiswoode,  stepped  away  from  the  door  and 
farther  into  the  room,  it  came. 

Nobody  heard  it.  Nobody  saw  it  or  smelt  it. 
Nobody  even  felt  it,  either  consciously  or  subcon 
sciously. 

But  again,  through  the  mixed  company  that 
crowded  the  duchess's  salon,  there  passed  a  shiver. 
A  terrible,  silent,  hopeless  shiver. 

Then  noises:  human  noises,  and  the  relief  that 
goes  with  them.  A  distinct  sound  of  breath  sucked 
in  quickly,  of  tea-cups  clacking  as  hands  trembled, 
of  feet  shuffling  uneasily  on  the  thick  Turkish  carpet, 
of  the  very  servants,  placidly,  stolidly  English,  stop- 


6  WINGS 

ping  in  their  rounds  of  hospitable  duties,  standing 
stock-still,  silver  trays  gripped  in  white-gloved 
fingers,  and  staring,  breathless,  like  pointers  at  bay. 

"Something — like  great  wings,  rushing,  rushing !" 
murmured  Charlie  Thorneycroft,  dropping  his  usual 
slang  like  a  cloak. 

"Like — wings — "  echoed  Victoria  de  Rensen  with 
a  little  sob. 

Yet  there  was  nothing  formidable  or  sinister  in 
the  raja's  progress  through  the  room,  by  the  side  of 
Sir  James,  who  played  guide,  philosopher,  and 
friend.  A  charming,  childlike  smile  was  on  his  lips. 
His  great,  opaque  eyes  beamed  with  honest,  kindly 
pleasure.  He  bowed  here  to  a  lady,  shook  the  hands 
of  barrister  and  judge  and  artist,  mumbled  friendly 
words  in  soft,  halting  English,  accepted  a  cup  of 
tea  from  a  servant  who  had  regained  his  composure, 
and  dropped  into  a  low  Windsor  chair,  looking  at 
the  people  with  the  same  melancholy,  childlike  ex 
pression. 

Very  gradually  the  huge,  voiceless  excitement 
died. 

Once  more  servants  pussyfooted  through  the 
salon  with  food  and  drink;  once  more  the  Paris 
cubist  tore  the  artistic  theories  of  the  white-bearded 


WINGS  7 

Royal  Academician  into  shreds ;  once  more  the  Wis 
consin  evangelist  bent  to  the  ear  of  the  Mayfair 
debutante  and  implored  her  to  hit  the  trail  of  sal 
vation  ;  once  more  lion  growled  at  lion. 

But  Charlie  Thorneycroft  could  not  shake  off  the 
strange  impression  which  he  had  received.  He  was 
still  aware  of  the  thing,  whatever  it  was,  and  of  the 
great  rushing  of  wings.  It  came  out  of  the  East, 
from  far  across  the  sea,  and  it  was  very  portentous, 
very  terrible,  very  tragic. 

"I  didn't  hear  the  wings!"  he  exclaimed  later  on. 
"Nor  did  I  feel  them.  If  I  had  felt  or  heard  I 
wouldn't  have  minded  so,  you  know.  I  felt  with 
them — and  I  was  sorry  for  them,  awfully,  awfully 
sorry.  No  sense  to  that?  Of  course  not.  There 
wasn't  a  bally  ounce  of  sense  to  the  whole  wretched 
thing  from  beginning  to  end — -and  that's  the  worst 
of  it!" 


II 


Such  was  the  entree  of  the  Maharaja  of  Oneypore 
into  London  society;  and  for  three  weeks,  to  a  day, 
an  ho^r,  a  minute — "Hang  it !  To  a  bally  second !" 
Charlie  Thorneycroft  commented — the  impression 
which  had  accompanied  him  into  the  salon  of  Her 
(Grace  of  Shropshire  clung  to  him. 

Not  that  people  feared  or  mistrusted  him.  [There 
was  nothing  personal  about  it,  and  indeed  the  man 
was  kindness  itself.  He  could  not  pass  by  beggar, 
by  effusive,  tailwagging  street  cur,  or  by  mewing, 
rubbing,  dusty,  ash-bin  cat,  without  giving  what  he 
thought  was  demanded  of  him — money  or  caress  or 
soft  word. 

Nor  was  it  Because  he  was  too  foreign.  For  he 
improved  his  English  rapidly,  and,  well-bred,  a 
gentleman,  it  did  not  take  him  long  to  master  Eu 
ropean  social  customs,  including  the  prejudices. 
He  tried  his  best  to  become  Western,  in  every  sense 
of  the  word,  and  to  that  end  he  abandoned  his 

8 


WINGS  9 

Hindu  dress,  his  turban,  his  magnificent  jewels. 
He  even  shaved  off  his  split,  henna-stained  beard, 
and  there  remained  nothing  about  him  reminiscent 
of  his  native  land  except  the  expression  in  his  eyes — 
melancholy,  ancient,  tired;  more  the  eyes  of  a  race 
than  those  of  an  individual — and  the  vivid,  crimson 
caste-mark  painted  on  his  forehead. 

It  seemed  rather  incongruous,  topping,  as  it  did, 
his  correct  English  clothes  tailored  by  a  Sackville 
Street  craftsman. 

Then,  at  the  end  of  three  weeks,  the  aura  of 
suspense,  the  aura  of  waiting  for  something  that 
had  already  happened  which  hovered  about  him,  dis 
appeared  quite  as  suddenly,  and  quite  as  terribly  as 
it  had  come. 

It  was  on  the  occasion  of  a  ball  given  at  Marl- 
borough  House,  and  the  rooms  were  gay  with  fluffy 
chiffon  and  stately  brocades,  with  glittering  uni 
forms,  and  the  sharp  contrast  of  black  and  white 
evening  dress.  The  orchestra,  hidden  behind  a 
palm  screen,  sobbed  a  lascivious  Brazilian  tango. 
Paired  off,  the  young  danced  and  flirted  and 
laughed.  So  did  the  middle-aged  and  the  old.  In 
the  buffet-room  the  majordomo  was  busy  with  the 


io  WINGS 

preparation  of  the  famous  Marlborough  cham 
pagne-punch. 

At  half  past  eleven  the  raja  entered,  together  with 
Charlie  Thorneycroft,  who  had  attached  himself  to 
him,  and  at  once  the  usual  enormous  shiver  brushed 
through  the  assembly,  like  a  wedge  of  ferocious, 
superhuman  evil,  with  a  hidden  thunder  of  un- 
guessed-at  immensity. 

People  stopped  still  in  the  middle  of  a  dance-step. 
The  music  broke  off  with  a  jarring  discord  as  a 
B-string  snapped.  The  Marchioness  of  Liancourt 
swooned  against  a  priceless  Sevres  vase  and  sent  it 
splintering  to  the  waxed  floor.  The  majordomo 
dropped  his  mixing-ladle  into  the  silver  punch-bowl. 

Remote,  gigantic,  extended,  the  impression  of 
voiceless  fear  gathered  speed.  It  gathered  breath- 
clogging  terror.  It  stabbed  the  regions  of  sublimi 
nal  consciousness. 

Strident  yet  unheard,  huge  yet  unseen,  torrential 
yet  non-existent,  it  swelled  to  a  draft  of  sound — 
"sound  beyond  the  meaning  of  the  word — words 
are  so  inadequate — sound  which  you  could  not 
hear!"  Thorneycroft  put  it — that  sucked  through 
the  rooms  with  the  strength  of  sky  and  sea  and  stars, 
with  the  speed  of  splintering  lances  thrown  by 


WINGS  ii 

giants'  hands,  with  a  passionate,  tragic  leaping  and 
yearning  that  was  as  the  ancient  call  of  Creation 
itself.  It  flashed  outward  with  a  wrenching,  tame 
less  glory  and  savagery  that  fused  all  these  London 
molecules  of  humanity  into  one  shivering  whole. 

Two  minutes  it  lasted,  and  at  exactly  twenty^ 
eight  minutes  to  twelve  Thorneycroft,  obeying  a 
peculiar  impulse,  had  looked  at  his  watch,  and  he 
never  lived  to  forget  the  time  nor  the  date :  the  1 5th 
of  January,  1913 — the  nameless  impression  passed 
into  the  limbo  of  unremembered  things. 

It  passed  as  enormously — by  contrast — as  it  had 
come.  It  passed  with  an  all-pervading  sense  of 
sweetness  and  peace :  of  intimate  sweetness,  too  inti 
mate  peace.  It  passed  with  a  wafting  of  jasmine 
and  marigold  perfume,  a  soft  tinkling  of  far-away 
bells,  and  the  muffled  sobs  of  women  coming  from 
across  immeasurable  distances. 

The  raja  smiled. 

He  raised  a  high-veined  hand  in  salutation. 
Then  he  trembled.  He  gave  a  low  sigh  that 
changed  rapidly  into  a  rattling  gurgle.  His  eyes 
became  staring  and  glassy.  His  knees  gave  way, 
and  he  fell  straight  back,  dead,  white-faced,  the 
crimson  caste-mark  on  his  forehead  looking  like 


12  WINGS 

some   evil   thing,    mocking,    sardonic,    triumphant. 

"God !"  Thorneycroft  bent  over  the  rigid  form, 
feeling  the  heart  that  had  ceased  to  beat.  He  spoke 
a  quick  word,  and  servants  came  and  carried  out 
the  body. 

But  the  people  who  crowded  the  rooms  seemed 
quite  unaware  that  death  had  stalked  among  them. 
Suddenly  a  wild  wave  of  gayety  surged  through 
the  house.  They  laughed.  They  chattered.  They 
jested.  They  clinked  glasses.  The  orchestra  led 
away  with  a  Paris  waltz  that  was  as  light  as  foam. 

That  night  champagne  flowed  like  water.  Half 
a  dozen  love-affairs  were  finished,  another  half- 
dozen  begun.  Scandal  was  winked  at  and  condoned. 
Gayety,  the  madness  of  Bacchanalian  gayety, 
invaded  every  nook  and  cranny  of  Marlborough 
House,  invading  the  very  servants'  hall,  where  the 
majordomo  balanced  the  third  up-stairs  parlor-maid 
on  his  knees  and  spoke  to  her  of  love  in  thickly 
dignified  terms.  . 

Two  days  later  Martab  Singf£  Maharaja  of 
Oneypore,  descendant  of  the  many  gods,  was  buried 
in  state,  with  twenty  file  of  Horse  Guards  flanking 
the  coffin,  and  all  the  purple- faced  gentry  of  the 
India  Office  rolling  behind  in  carriages,  dressed  in 


WINGS  13 

pompous  black  broadcloth  and  smoking  surreptitious 
cigars. 

On  the  same  day  Charlie  Thorneycroft  called  on 
Victoria  de  Rensen,  kissed  her  pouting  lips,  and  told 
her  in  his  vague  manner  that  he  was  off  to  India. 


Ill 


India  came  to  Charlie  Thorneycroft  as  it  had 
come  to  him  a  dozen  times :  with  a  sudden  rush  of 
splendor,  flaming  red,  golden  tipped,  shot  through 
with  purple  and  emerald-green,  and  hardly  cloaking 
the  thick,  stinking  layer  of  cruelty  and  superstition 
and  ignorance  that  stewed  and  oozed  beneath  the 
colorful  surface.  He  knew  it  all,  from  the  Rajput 
gentleman's  stately  widow  who  gives  herself  to  the 
burning  pyre  in  spite  of  British  laws,  to  the  meanest 
half-caste  money-lender  who  devils  the  souls  of 
sporting  subalterns  amid  the  flowering  peepul-trees 
of  Fort  William  barracks;  and  so  he  yawned  his 
way  from  the  moment  when  the  big  P.  and  O.  liner 
nosed  kittenishly  through  the  sucking  sand-banks 
of  the  Hoogly  to  the  Hotel  Semiramis. 

There  he  had  a  lengthy  and  whispered  conversa- 
ton  with  a  deputy  commissioner  recently  returned 
from  Rajputana,  who  bowed  low  and  spoke  softly 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Thorneycroft  was  his 

14 


WINGS  15 

junior  by  twenty  years  and  seemed  to  have  no 
especial  diplomatic  rank  or  emoluments. 

All  the  next  morning  he  yawned  away  the  hours 
that  creep  to  the  sweating  west,  took  a  late  train 
for  the  north,  and  continued  his  bored  prog 
ress  through  twelve  hundred  miles  of  varied 
scenery. 

He  had  no  eye  for  the  checker-board  landscape 
of  neat  Bengal,  nor  for  the  purple  and  orange  tints 
of  the  Indian  sky  that  changed  the  far  hills  into 
glowing  heaps  of  topaz,  the  scorched  ridges  into 
carved  masses  of  amethyst  and  rose-red.  Rajpu- 
tana,  gold  and  heliotrope,  sad  with  the  dead  cen 
turies,  the  dead  glory,  interested  him  not. 

His  thoughts  were  far  in  the  north,  near  the 
border,  where  Rajput  and  Afghan  wait  for  a  re 
newal  of  the  old,  bitter  fight  for  supremacy  when 
Britain  shall  have  departed;  and  still,  waking  and 
sleeping,  he  could  feel — he  could  feel  with — the 
silent  whirring  of  immense  wings — "like  the  wings 
of  a  tortured  soul  trying  to  escape  the  cage  of  the 
dust-created  body,"  he  put  it  with  a  lyric  soaring 
that  clashed  incongruously  with  his  usual  horsy 
slang. 

The  whirring  of  wings ! 


1 6  WINGS 

And  there  was  sjome  accent  In  it  of  secret  dread, 
of  terrible,  secret  melancholy,  deeper  than  his  soul 
could  perceive,  his  brain  could  classify.  The  terror 
of  a  mighty  struggle  was  behind  it:  a  mighty 
struggle  awfully  remote  from  individual  existence 
and  individual  ambition  and  life,  individual  death 
even.  It  partook  of  India  itselfj  the  land,  the 
ancient  races,  the  very  gods. 

The  farther  north  he  traveled  the  more  strongly 
grew  the  shapeless,  voiceless  impression.  At  times, 
suddenly,  a  light  flashed  down  the  hidden  tunnels 
of  his  inner  consciousness,  and  made  visible  for  one 
fleeting  second  something  which  he  seemed  too  slow 
to  comprehend. 

A  whisper  came  to  him  from  beyond  the  ration 
ally  knowable. 

And  so,  two  days  later,  he  dropped  from  the  train 
at  a  small  up-land  station  that  consisted  of  a  chaotic 
whirlwind  of  stabbing  sand,  seven  red-necked  vul 
tures  squatting  on  a  low  wall  and  making  un 
seemly  noises,  a  tumble-down  Vishnavite  shrine,  and 
a  fat,  patent-leather-slippered  babu,  who  bowed  be 
fore  Charlie  Thorneycroft  even  lower  than  the 
deputy  commissioner  had  done,  called  him  Protec- 


WINGS  17 

tor  of  the  Pitiful,  and  otherwise  did  him  great 
honor. 

"All  right,  all  right!"  came  Thorneycroft's  im 
patient  rejoinder.  "I  see  that  you  got  my  cable.  Is 
the  bullock-cart  ready?" 

"Yes,  heaven-born!"  And  the  babu  pointed  at 
the  tonga,  the  bullock-cart,  that  came  ghostlike  out 
of  the  whirling  sandstorm. 

"Good  enough."  He  swung  himself  up. 
"Ready.  Chuck  the  bedding  and  the  ice  in  the 
back.  Let  her  go !"  he  said  to  the  driver,  who  had 
his  jaws  bandaged  after  the  manner  of  desertmen, 
and  the  tonga  started  off,  dipping  and  plunging 
across  the  ridges  like  a  small  boat  in  a  short  sea. 

The  babu  squatted  by  Thorneycroft's  side,  talk 
ing  softly,  and  again  the  Englishman  yawned.  But 
this  time  there  was  a  slight  affectation  in  his  ya\vn, 
and  affectation,  too,  as  of  one  weaving  close  to  the 
loom  of  lies,  in  his  words : 

"Yes,  yes.  I  fancy  it  is  the  old  story.  Some 
jealous  wildcat  of  a  hill  woman — " 

"No,  heaven-born !"  cut  in  the  babu.  He  winked 
his  heavy-lidded  eyes  slowly  as  if  to  tell  the  other 
that  he  was  "on."  "This  time  it  is  different.  This 
time  there  is  no  woman's  jealousy  brewing  unclean 


1 8  WINGS 

abominations  behind  the  curtains  of  the  zenana. 
This  time  it  is — " 

"Priestcraft?" 

"You  have  said  it,  sahib !"  came  the  babu's  reply 
in  a  flat,  frightened  whisper. 

"All  right!"  Thorneycroft  gave  a  short,  un 
pleasant  laugh.  "Let's  go  to  Deolibad  first  and  call 
on  my  friend  Youssef  Ali."  And  a  few  words  of 
direction  to  the  driver,  who  grunted  a  reply,  jerked 
the  heads  of  the  trotting  animals-  away  from  the 
north  and  toward  the  northwest,  and  plied  their  fat 
sides  with  the  knotted  end  of  his  whip. 

All  night  they  drove.  They  rested  near  a 
shallow  river.  But  they  did  not  tarry  long.  They 
watered  the  team,  rubbed  them  down  with  sand,  and 
were  off  again. 

It  was  a  long,  hot  drive.  The  silence,  the  inso 
lent  nakedness  of  the  land,  the  great,  burning  sun 
lay  on  Thorneycroft's  soul  like  a  heavy  burden. 
Time  and  again  he  was  conscious  of  the  whirring 
of  wings,  and  with  each  league  it  seemed  to  lay 
closer  to  the  ears  of  his  inner  self.  It  seemed  born 
somewhere  in  the  heart  of  the  purple,  silver-nicked 
gloom  that  draped  the  hills  of  Rajputana. 

The  babu,  too,  was  conscious  of  it.     His  teeth 


WINGS  19 

clicked.  His  body  trembled,  and  he  looked  at  the 
Englishman,  who  looked  back  at  him. 

Neither  spoke.  Something  utterly  overwhelming 
enfolded  them.  For  the  whirring  was  at  once  of 
enchanting  peace  and  sweetness,  and  of  a  mournful, 
tragic,  sobbing  strength  that  was  like  the  death  of  a 
soul. 

Once  the  babu  put  it  into  words : 

"Like  the  death  of  a  soul — " 

"Shut  up!"  Thorneycroft  whispered,  and  then 
silence  again  but  for  the  pattering  hoofs  of  the 
bullocks. 

There  were  few  signs  of  life.  At  times  a  gecko 
slipped  away  through  the  scrub  \vith  a  green, 
metallic  glisten.  Once  in  a  while  a  kite  poised  high 
in  the  parched,  blue  sky.  Another  time  they  over 
took  a  gigantic  cotton-wain  drawn  by  twenty 
bullocks  about  the  size  of  Newfoundland  dogs. 

Then,  late  one  night,  they  reached  Deolibad, 
They  passed  through  the  tall  southern  gate,  studded 
with  sharp  elephant-spikes,  paid  off  their  driver, 
walked  through  the  mazes  of  the  perfume-sellers' 
bazaar,  and  stopped  in  front  of  an  old  house. 

Three  times  Thomeycroft  knocked  at  the  age- 
gangrened,  cedarwood  door,  sharp,  staccato,  with  a 


20  WINGS 

long  pause  between  the  second  and  third  knocks,  and 
then  again  three  times  in  rapid  succession. 

It  was  as  if  the  ramshackle  old  house  were  listen 
ing  in  its  sleep,  then  slowly  awakening.  Came  the 
scratch  of  a  match,  a  thin,  light  ray  drifting  through 
the  cracks  in  the  shutters,  a  shuffling  of  slippered 
feet,  and  the  door  opened. 

A  man  stood  there,  old,  immensely  tall,  im 
mensely  fat,  an  Afghan  judging  from  his  black  silk 
robe  and  his  oiled  locks,  holding  a  candle  in  his 
right  hand. 

He  peered  at  the  two  figures  in  front  of  him. 
Then  he  broke  into  high-pitched  laughter  and 
gurgling  words  of  greeting. 

"Thorneycrof t !  Thorneycroft,  by  the  Prophet! 
Young  heart  of  my  old  heart !" 

And  in  his  excitement  he  dropped  the  candle, 
which  clattered  to  the  ground,  and  hugged  the  Eng 
lishman  to  his  breast.  The  latter  returned  the  em 
brace;  but,  as  the  Afghan  was  about  to  renew  his 
flowery  salutations,  cut  them  short  with: 

'T  need  your  help,  Youssef  Ali." 

"Anything,  anything,  child !  I  will  give  you  any 
help  you  ask.  I  will  grant  you  anything  except 
sorrow.  Ahi!  These  are  like  the  old  days,  when 


WINGS  21 

you,  with  your  mother's  milk  not  yet  dry  on  your 
lips,  rode  by  my  side  to  throw  the  dragnet  of  the 
British  Raj's  law  around  the  lying  priests  of  this 
stinking  land.  Heathen  priests  of  Shiva  and 
Vishnu,  worshiping  a  monkey  and  a  flower! 
Aughrrr!"  He  spat. 

Thorney croft  laughed. 

"Still  the  old,  intolerant  Youssef,  aren't  you? 
All  right.  But  I  don't  need  much.  Simply  this — • 
and  that — "  He  crossed  the  threshold  side  by  side 
with  the  Afghan  and  followed  by  the  babu.  He 
said  a  few  words,  adding:  "I  hear  that  you  are  a 
much-married  man,  besides  being  an  amateur  of 
tuwaifs,  of  dancing-girls.  So  I'm  sure  you  will  be 
able  to  help  me  out.  I  could  have  gone  to  the 
bazaar  and  bought  the  stuff.  But  there  are  leaky 
tongues  there — " 

It  was  Youssef 's  turn  to  laugh. 

"A  love  affair,  child  ?  Perhaps  with  the  daughter 
of  some  hill  raja?" 

"No.  Not  love.  But  life—and  death.  And 
perhaps — "  He  was  silent.  There  was  again  the 
giant  whirring  of  wings.  Then  he  went  on: 
"Perhaps  again  life!  Who  knows?" 

"Allah  knows !"  piously  mumbled  Youssef.     "He 


22  WINGS 

is  the  One,  the  All-Knowing.  Come  with  me, 
child,"  he  went  on,  lifting  a  brown-striped  curtain 
that  shut  off  the  zenana.  "Sitt  Kumar  will  help 
you — a  little  dancing-girl  whom" — he  coughed 
apologetically — "I  recently  encountered,  and  whose 
feet  are  just  now  very  busy  crushing  my  fat,  foolish 
old  heart.  Wait  here,  O  babu-jee!"  he  said  to  the 
babu,  while  he  and  the  Englishman  disappeared  be 
hind  the  zenana  curtain. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  a  woman's 
light,  tinkly  laughter,  a  clacking  of  bracelets  and 
anklets,  a  rapid  swishing  of  linen  and  silk. 

Again  the  woman's  light  laughter.     Her  words: 

"Keep  quiet,  sahib,  lest  the  walnut-dye  enter  thy 
eye!"  And  ten  minutes  later  the  zenana  curtains 
were  drawn  aside  to-  disclose  once  mo-re  the  Afghan, 
arm  in  arm  with  a  middle-aged,  dignified  Brahman 
priest,  complete  in  every  detail  of  outer  sacerdotal 
craft,  from  the  broidered  skull-cap  and  the  brilliant 
caste-mark  on  his  forehead  to  the  patent-leather 
pumps,  the  open-work  white  stockings,  and  the 
sacred  volume  bound  in  red  Bokhara  leather  that  he 
carried  in  his  right  hand. 

"Nobody  will  recognize  you,"  said  Youssef. 

"Good!"   said   the   Brahman   in  Thorneycroft's 


WING?  23 

voice.  "And  now — can  you  lend  me  a  couple  of 
horses?" 

"Surely.  I  have  a  brace  of  Marwari  stallions. 
Jewels,  child!  Pearls!  Noble  bits  of  horseflesh! 
Comer 

He  led  the  way  to  the  stable,  which  was  on  the 
other  side  of  his  house,  and  sheltered  by  a  low  wall. 
He  lit  an  oil-lamp,  opened  the  door,  soothed  the 
nervous,  startled  Marwaris  with  voice  and  knowing 
hand,  and  saddled  them. 

He  led  the  horses  out,  and  Thorneycroft  and  the 
babu  mounted. 

"Where  to?"  asked  the  Afghan. 

Thorneycroft  waved  his  hand  in  farewell. 

"To  Oneypore!"  he  replied.  "To  interview  a 
dead  raja's  soul!"  He  turned  to  the  babu.  "We 
must  hurry,  O  babu-jee !  Every  minute  counts !" 

And  he  was  off  at  a  gallop,  closely  followed  by 
the  other. 


IV 


The  night  was  as  black  as  pitch,  but  Thorneycroft 
rode  hard. 

He  figured  back. 

The  Maharaja  of  Oneypore  had  died  on  the 
fifteenth  of  January.  To-day  was  the  tenth  of 
February.  Twenty-five  days  had  elapsed  since  the 
raja's  death. 

Would  he  be  in  time? 

"Come  on,  babu-jee!"  he  cried,  and  rode  harder 
than  ever. 

Once  his  stallion  reared  on  end  and  landed  stiffly 
on  his  forefeet,  nearly  throwing  him.  But  that 
night  he  could  not  consider  the  feelings  of  a  mere 
horse.  He  pressed  on  the  curb  with  full  strength 
and  brought  his  fist  down  between  the  animal's  ears ; 
and,  after  a  minute  or  two  of  similar  reasoning,  the 
Marwari  stretched  his  splendid,  muscled  body  and 
fell  into  a  long,  swinging  fox-trot. 

The  road  to  Oneypore  was  as  straight  as  a  lance 
24 


WINGS  25 

and  fairly  good.     They  rode  their  horses  alternat 
ing  between  a  fast  walk  and  a  short  hand  gallop. 

Thorneycroft  had  not  eaten  since  noon  of  the 
preceding  day,  and  was  tired  and  hungry.  But  he 
kept  on.  For  there  was  something  calling  him,  call 
ing  him,  from  the  ragged  hills  that  looped  to  the  east 
in  carved,  sinister  immensity;  and  through  the  vel 
vety  gloom  of  the  night,  through  the  gaunt  shadows 
of  the  low,  volcanic  ridges  that  trooped  back  to 
Deolibad  and  danced  like  hobgoblins  among  the 
dwarf  aloes,  through  the  click-clank  etty-click  of  the 
stallions'  pattering  feet,  there  came  to  him  again  the 
whirring — like  a  tragic  message  to  hurry,  hurry. 

Morning  blazed  with  the  suddenness  of  the 
tropics.  The  sun  had  hardly  risen,  but  already  it 
was  close  and  muggy.  A  jaundiced  heat  veiled  the 
levels — foretaste  of  the  killing,  scorching  heat  of 
March  and  April — and  the  birds,  true  weather 
prophets,  the  parrots  and  the  minas,  the  tiny,  blue- 
winged  doves  and  the  pert,  ubiquitous  crows,  were 
opening  their  beaks  with  a  painful  effort  and  gasp 
ing  for  air — another  week,  and  they  would  be  off 
for  the  cool  deodars  of  the  higher  hills. 

In  the  distance  a  dark  mass  was  looming  up: 


26  WINGS 

Oneypore — and  the  horses  were  about  to  give  in. 
Their  heads  were  bowed  on  their  heaving,  lathering 
chests,  and  they  breathed  with  a  deep,  rattling  noise. 

Thorneycroft  dismounted  and  stretched  his 
cramped  legs. 

"Ride  down  there/'  he  said  to  the  babu,  point 
ing  at  a  narrow  valley  to  the  west,  black  with  trees 
and  gnarled  shrub,  that  cleft  the  land.  "Wait  until 
you  hear  from  me.  I  fancy  you'll  find  some  brother 
babu  in  the  valley  fattening  his  pouch  and  increas 
ing  his  bank-account  at  the  expense  of  the  Rajput 
villagers.  He  will  give  you  food  and  drink  and  a 
roof  over  your  head.  Tell  him  anything  you  wish 
as  long  as  you  don't  tell  him  the  truth." 

"Of  course  I  shall  not  tell  him  the  truth,"  replied 
the  babu,  slightly  hurt.  "Am  I  a  fool  or — " 

"An  Englishman?"  Thorneycroft  completed  the 
sentence.  "Never  mind.  I  am  English.  But  I 
learned  the  art  of  deceit  in  Kashmere,  the  home  of 
lies,  and  Youssef  Ali,  too,  gave  me  some  invaluable 
lessons." 

And  while  the  babu  rode  off  to  the  valley,  leading 
the  other  horse,  Thorneycroft  set  off  at  a  good  clip 
toward  Oneypore,  which  was  becoming  more  dis 
tinct  every  minute  as  the  morning  mists  rolled  up 


WINGS  27 

and  away  like  torn  gauze  veils.  It  was  seven 
o'clock  when  he  reached  the  western  gate,  an  ancient 
marble  structure,  incrusted  with  symbolistic  figures 
and  archaic  terra-cotta  medallions,  and  topped  by  a 
lacy,  fretted  lotus-bud  molding. 

Beyond,  the  city  stretched  like  a  flower  of  stone 
petals. 

Oneypore ! 

The  sacred  city  of  Hindustan!  The  holy  soil 
where  the  living  descendants  of  the  gods  had  ruled 
for  over  five  thousand  years — and  one  of  them 
dead,  on  unclean,  foreign  soil — buried  in  unclean, 
foreign  soil ! 

An  outcast!  He,  the  descendant  of  Rama,  an 
outcast ! 

Oneypore !  And  it  was  a  fascinating  town,  with 
crooked  streets  and  low,  white  houses,  cool  gardens 
ablaze  with  mangoes  and  mellingtonia  and  flowering 
peepul-trees  and,  in  the  distance,  a  gigantic  palace, 
built  out  of  a  granite  hillside,  and  descending  into 
the  dip  of  the  valley  with  an  avalanche  of  bold 
masonry. 

Toward  it,  without  hesitation,  Thorneycroft  set 
his  face. 

He  had  to  cross  the  Oneypore  River,  only  second 


28  WINGS 

in  holiness  to  the  palace :  the  river  which,  for  cen 
turies,  had  been  the  last  resting-place  of  thousands 
of  Afghans  and  Rajputs  massacred  in  the  narrow 
streets  of  the  city  or  slain  in  fierce  combats  outside 
its  brown,  bastioned  walls.  Sorrowing  widows,  in 
accordance  with  the  marriage  vows  of  their  caste, 
had  sought  the  solace  of  oblivion  beneath  its  placid 
surface.  Faithless  wives  and  dancing  girls  had 
been  hurled  into  the  waters  from  the  convenient 
battlements  and  windows  of  the  palace. 

The  river's  sinister  reputation,  in  spite  of  its 
holiness,  was  such  that  though  the  natives  bathed 
in  its  limpid  depth  they  never,  knowingly,  allowed 
a  drop  of  it  to  pass  their  lips.  River  of  grim 
tragedies — and  its  hour  of  grim  glory  came  when 
a  Maharaja  of  Oneypore  died,  and  when  his  corpse, 
attired  in  its  most  magnificent  costume,  the  arms 
encircled  by  jeweled  bracelets,  shimmering  necklaces 
of  pearls  and  moonstones  and  diamonds  descending 
to  the  waist,  and  a  huge,  carved  emerald  falling  like 
a  drop  of  green  fire  from  the  twisted,  yellow  Rajput 
turban,  was  carried  out  of  the  palace,  through  the 
streets  of  the  town,  sitting  bolt  upright  on  a  chair 
of  state,  and  back  to  the  banks  of  the  Oneypore 
River,  where  the  body  was  burnt  and  its  ashes 


,WINGS  29 

thrown  into  the  waters — while  the  women  wailed 
and  beat  their  breasts,  while  white-robed  priests 
chanted  long-winded  litanies,  while  the  conches 
brayed  from  the  temples,  and  while  the  smoke  from 
many  ceremonial  fires  ascended  to  the  sky  in  thick, 
wispy  streams  and  hung  in  a  ruddy,  bloodshot  cloud 
above  the  glare  of  the  funeral  pyre  /that  lit  up  the 
palace  and  told  to  all  the  world  that  another  one  of 
the  divine  race  of  Oneypore  had  gone  to  join 
Brahm,  his  kinsman. 

Brahm,  his  kinsman! 

And  Martab  Singh  had  mingled  the  bones  of  his 
'dead  body  with  those  of  the  mleMias,  the  for 
eigners,  the  barbarians,  the  Christians — on  foreign, 
Christian  soil! 

Something  like  a  shudder  of  apprehension  passed 
over  Thorneycroft,  but  he  kept  sturdily  on  his  way, 
returning  the  salutations  with  which  the  hook-nosed, 
saber-rattling,  swaggering  Rajputs  greeted  him  be 
cause  of  his  Brahman  garb.  He  went  up  a  steep 
ascent  that  led  to  the  chowk,  the  outer  courtyard 
of  the  palace,  and  the  soldiers  salaamed  and  stepped 
aside : 

"Enter,  O  holy  one!" 


30  WINGS 

Like  a  man  sure  of  his  way,  he  passed  through  a 
low  gate,  through  another  courtyard  crammed  with 
human  life,  and  into  still  another,  which  was  life 
less  except  for  the  whir  and  coo  of  hundreds  of  blue- 
winged  pigeons  and  for  the  figure  of  a  very  old 
priest,  squatting  on  a  goat's-skin  rug  and  de'ep  in 
the  perusal  of  a  massive  Sanskrit  tome. 


The  old  priest  looked  up  when  Thorneycroft  ap 
proached,  and  the  latter  gave  an  involuntary  start, 
though  rapidly  suppressed. 

In  former  years,  pursuing  his  vague,  mysterious 
diplomatic  career  in  different  parts  of  that  immense 
block  of  real  estate  called  the  British  Empire,  but  a 
good  half  of  the  time  in  India,  he  had  heard  about 
this  priest,  the  Swami  Pel  Krishna  Srina.  He 
knew  that  the  man  was  the  prime  minister,  that  be 
fore  him  his  father  had  held  the  same  position,  be 
fore  his  father  his  grandfather,  and  thus  back  for 
many  generations.  For  the  Brahmans  of  the  house 
of  Pel  Srina  were  cousins  in  blood  and  caste  to  the 
reigning  house  of  Oneypore,  and  like  them  descend 
ants  of  the  gods. 

Neither  the  maharaja  nor  his  prime  minister  had 
ever  taken  much  interest  in  the  muddy,  coiling 

• 

politics  of  India.     It  was  indifferent  to  them  what 
particular  foreign  barbarian — English  or  Afghan  or 

31 


32  WINGS 

Mogul  or  Persian — was  overlord  of  the  great 
peninsula.  They  seemed  satisfied  with  ruling  the 
little  rocky,  barren  principality,  with  the  faded  glory 
of  the  dead  centuries,  and  with  the  decidedly  theo 
logical  and  just  as  decidedly  unworldly  fact  that  the 
Oneypores  were  considered  the  living  repre 
sentatives  of  the  gods  by  the  vast  majority  of 
Hindus. 

Thus  Thorneycroft  had  never  taken  the  trouble 
of  meeting  Swami  Pel  Srina,  and  now,  seeing  him 
for  the  first  time,  he  was  startled  out  of  his  cus 
tomary  English  calm. 

Nor  was  it  a  psychic  impression.  Here,  in  this 
shelteTed  courtyard — and  for  the  first  time  since 
that  day  when  the  Maharaja  of  Oneypore  had  made 
nfs  appearance  in  the  salon  of  the  Duchess  of  Shrop 
shire — he  was  unaware,  quite  unaware  of  the  silent, 
gigantic  whirring  of  wings. 

What  made  him  suck  in  his  breath  was  the  face 
of  the  swami. 

"I  wish  I  could  picture  it  to  you  as  I  £aw  it,"  he 
said  afterward.  "It  would  take  the  hand  of  some 
mad  cubist  sculptor  to  clout  the  meaning  of  it.  The 
features?  No,  no.  Nothing  extraordinary  about 
them.  Just  those  of  an  elderly,  dignified,  rather 


WINGS  33 

conceited  Brahman.  But  the  expression  of  the  thin, 
compressed  lips,  the  great  staring,  gray  eyes !  Gad ! 
I  am  an  Englishman,  a  Christian — and  a  public 
school  product.  Thus  I'm  a  jolly  good  Episco 
palian,  take  me  all  round.  But  when  I  saw  those 
eyes — oh — the  whole  cursed  thing  seemed  suddenly 
rational,  possible — inevitable  even!  Right  then — 
Christian,  Englishman,  and  public  school  product — 
I  believed  the  absurd  claim  of  the  rajas  and  prime 
ministers  of  Oneypore  that  they  were  the  descend 
ants  of  Rama  and  Vishnu.  It  was  all  in  those  eyes 
that  were  staring  at  me.  They  looked — oh — un 
earthly—that's  the  word!" 

Perhaps  the  whole  sensation,  the  whole  flash  of 
superstitious  emotion  lasted  only  a  moment.  Per 
haps  it  was  contained  in  the  short  time  it  took  the 
swami  to  look  up,  to  drop  his  book,  and  to  raise  a 
thin,  high- veined  hand  with  the  words: 

"Greetings,  brother  priest !" 

At  all  events  Thorneycro-ft  was  himself  again. 
He  bowed  over  the  withered  old  hand  and  said — 
he  had  thought  it  all  out  carefully  beforehand — that 
he  had  come  to  Oneypore  to  hear  with  his  own  ears, 
to  see  with  his  own  eyes,  the  great  miracle  which 
the  swami  had  performed. 


34  WINGS 

"Ah!"  breathed  the  swami,  and  he  did  not  alto 
gether  hide  a  faint  accent  of  nervousness — "then — 
it  has  been  talked  about — in  the  south  ?" 

"No!"  Thorneycroft  replied  quickly.  "Not 
talked  about.  I  do  not  even  know  what  it  is.  But 
a  voice  came  to  me  in  the  night — whispering, 
whispering;  it  was  like  the  whirring  of  wings,  and 
I  followed,  followed,  followed !  Straight  on  I  fol 
lowed  until  I  came  here,  to  Oneypore,  to  the  palace, 
the  courtyard,  your  presence,  O  swami !  And  now" 
— he  really  spoke  the  truth  there,  and  he  used  to 
say  afterward  that  it  was  doubtless  the  fact  of  his 
speaking  the  truth  which  made  him  so  utterly  con 
vincing — "now  the  whirring  of  wings  has  stopped. 
Now  there  is  sweetness  and  peace  as  there  was" — 
he  shot  the  words  out  suddenly — "that  day,  a  few 
weeks  back,  on  the  I5th  of  January!" 

"At  what  hour?"  as  suddenly  asked  the  priest. 

"At  twenty-eight  minutes  to  midnight!"  replied 
jThorneycroft,  who  had  never  forgotten  the  day  nor 
the  hour  when  the  Raja  of  Oneypore  had  died  in 
the  salon  of  Her  Grace  of  Shropshire. 

"Good !"  said  the  swami,  rising  slowly  and  lead 
ing  the  way  to  a  massive  door. 

He  drew  a  foot-long,  skewerlike  key  from  his 


WINGS  35 

waist-shawl,  opened  the  door,  and  motioned 
Thorneycroft  to  enter. 

The  gate  clicked  behind  them. 

"Good !"  he  said  again,  stopped,  and  faced  the 
other  squarely.  "You  have  wondered,"  he  went  on, 
"as  to  the  why  and  whe-refore — you,  to  whom  the 
voice  of  the  miracle  came  in  the  night?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Thorneycroft  in  low  accents,  his 
heart  beating  like  a  trip-hammer.  "I  have  won 
dered  indeed.  I  knew  the  thing — was  done.  I 
heard  the  whirring  of  wings.  I  knew  the  raja 
died—" 

"But  did  he  die,  brother  Brahman?"  The  swami 
looked  at  the  Englishman,  deep,  brooding  melan 
cholia  in  his  gray  eyes.  "Ahi!  Did  he  die?" 
And  he  made  a  hopeless  gesture  and  led  on  again 
through  empty  suites  of  rooms  supported  by  double 
rows  of  pillars,  past  balconies  which  clung  like 
birds'  nests  to  the  sheer  side  of  the  palace,  again 
through  more  rooms  and  up  and  down  steep  steps. 
Once  in  a  while  they  encountered  liveried,  turbaned 
officials.  But  always  the  latter  would  salaam  deeply 
and  step  aside. 

Finally  the  swami  stopped  in  front  of  a  door 
which  was  a  great  slab  of  tulip-wood  inlaid  with 


36  WINGS 

nacre  and  lac.     He  lifted  his  hand,  and  Thorney- 
croft  noticed  that  it  was  trembling  violently. 

"Brother  Brahman,"  he  said,  "Martab  Singh  was 
my  kinsman,  my  friend,  my  king.  He  was  cousin 
to  me,  and  cousin  to  the  gods.  I  loved  him  greatly, 
and  for  years,  with  me  by  his  side,  he  stepped  in 
the  footsteps  of  his  ancestors,  in  the  way  of  salva 
tion,  the  way  of  the  many  gods.  Then  one  day — • 
shall  I  ever  forget  it  ? — madness  came  to  him.  He, 
the  Maharaja  of  Oneypore,  he,  the  incarnation  of 
Rama  and  Vishnu  and  Brahm  himself,  declared  that 
the  desire  was  in  his  nostrils  to  leave  India.  To 
leave  the  sacred  soil!  To  go  traveling  in  the  far 
lands  and  see  the  unclean  witchcraft  of  the  for 
eigners,  the  Christians,  the  English,  the  mlechhas! 
Gently  I  spoke  to  him  as  I  might  to  a  child.  This 
and  that  I  told  him,  quoting  the  sacred  books,  the 
words  of  Brahm,  our  blessed  Lord.  'This  is  lust/ 
I  quoted,  'born  of  the  quality  of  rajas.  Know  this 
to  be  a  great  devourer,  great  sin,  and  the  enemy  on 
earth.  As  by  smoke  fire  is  enveloped,  and  the  look 
ing-glass  by  rust,  as  the  womb  envelops  the  unborn 
child,  so  by  this  it  is  enveloped.  By  this — the 
eternal  enemy  of  the  wise  man,  desire-formed,  hard 
to  be  filled,  insatiate — discrimination  is  enveloped. 


WINGS  37 

The  senses  and  organs,  the  thinking  faculty,  as  well 
as  the  faculty  of  judgment,  are  said  to  be  its  seat. 
It — enveloping  the  discriminative  faculty  with  these 
— deludes  the  lord  of  the  body!'  Thus  I  spoke  to 
him,  often,  gently!" 

"And  he?     Martab  Singh?" 

"Would  laugh  in  his  beard.  He  would  say  that, 
if  Vishnu  was  his  kinsman,  so  was  Indra — and 
Indra  was  the  god  of  travel.  And  so — " 

"He  traveled  ?     He  went  to  England  ?" 

"Not" 

"No?"  echoed  Thorneycroft.  He  felt  his  hair 
rise  as  if  drawn  by  a  shivery  wind.  His  thought 
swirled  back,  and  he  remembered  how  the  maharaja 
had  entered  the  salon  of  the  Duchess  of  Shropshire, 
how  he  had  bowed  over  the  withered  old  hand,  how 
Sir  James  Spottiswoode,  of  the  India  Office,  had 
vouched  for  him,  how — 

"No?"  he  said  again,  stupidly. 

"No,  by  Shiva!"  came  the  swarm's  hushed  voice. 
"He  did  not  travel.  He  did  not  leave  the  sacred 
soil  of  India.  He  is — in  here!"  At  the  same  time 
opening  the  door,  drawing  Thorneycroft  inside,  and 
shutting  the  door  behind  him. 


VI 


For  a  moment  the  Englishman  was  utterly  lost, 
utterly  confounded.  He  had  thought.  He  had 
imagined.  He  had  conferred  with  the  babu  and 
had  spoken  to  him  of.  priestcraft.  But  this — 
this — 

The  whirring  of  wings,  which  he  had  not  heard 
since  he  had  entered  the  inner  courtyard,  was  once 
more,  suddenly,  upon  him  with  terrific  force,  with 
the  strength  of  sun  and  sea  and  the  stars.  He  felt 
himself  caught  in  a  huge,  invisible  net  of  silent 
sound  that  swept  out  of  the  womb  of  creation, 
toward  death,  and  back  toward  throbbing  life.  The 
whirring  rose,  steadily,  terribly,  until  it  filled  the 
whole  room  from  floor  to  ceiling,  pressing  in  with 
ever-deepening  strength.  It  was  like  the  trembling 
of  air  in  a  belfry  where  bells  have  been  ringing 
ceaselessly  for  days — but  bells  without  sound,  bells 
with  only  the  ghost  of  sound — 

He  feared  it. 

38 


WINGS  .  39 

It  seemed  to  strike,  not  at  his  life,  but  at  the 
meaning,  the  plausibility,  the  saneness  of  life. 

It  took  possession  of  his  body  and  his  soul,  and 
forged  them  into  something  partaking  of  neither  the 
physical  nor  the  spiritual,  yet  at  the  same  moment 
partaking  of  both — something  that  was  beyond  the 
power  of  analysis,  of  guessing,  of  shivering  dread 
even. 

Quite  suddenly  it  stopped,  as  caught  in  an  air- 
pocket,  and  he  became  conscious  of  the  swami's 
pointing  finger,  and  his  low  words : 

"Look  there,  Brother  Brahman  !"• 

And,  stretched  on  a  bed  of  state  in  the  far  corner 
of  the  room,  he  saw  the  figure  of  Martab  Singh, 
Maharaja  of  Oneypore,  as  he  had  seen  him  that  first 
day  in  London,  with  his  large,  opaque  eyes,  the 
melancholy,  childlike  smile,  the  split,  curled  beard, 
the  crimson  caste  mark. 

The  figure  was  rigid.  There  wasn't  a  breath  of 
life.  It  was  like  a  marvelously  painted,  lifelike 
statue — yet  Thorneycroft  knew  that  it  was  not  a 
statue.  He  knew  that  it  was  the  maharaja — the 
same  maharaja  whom,  on  the  I5th  of  January,  he 
had  seen  die  in  Marlborough  House,  whom  he  had 
seen  burie'd'in  an  English  cemetery,  with  twenty  files 


40  .WINGS 

of  Horse  Guards  flanking  the  coffin  and  all  the 
gentry  of  the  India  Office  rolling  behind  in  com 
fortable  carriages. 

"But—what—" 

He  stammered.  His  voice  seemed  dead  and 
smothered.  He  began  to  shake  all  over,  feverishly ; 
and  again  the  whirring  of  wings  rushed  upon  him, 
and  again,  a  minute,  an  hour,  a  day,  a  week,  an 
eternity  later,  he  became  conscious  of  the  swami's 
low,  sibilant  voice : 

"He  wanted  to  travel.  Nor  could  I  dissuade 
him,  and  I — I  loved  him.  Thus  I  said  to  him: 
'You  yourself  cannot  leave  the  sacred  soil  of  India. 
It  would  bring  pollution  unthinkable  on  yourself,  on 
Hindustan,  on  the  blessed  gods  themselves.  But 
I  am  a  master  of  white  magic.  I  shall  take  your 
astral  body  from  the  envelope  of  your  living  body, 
and  I  shall  breathe  a  spell  upon  it  so  that  it  shall  be 
even  as  your  living  body,  feeling,  hearing,  seeing, 
touching.  Your  astral  self  shall  go  to  the  land  of 
the  mlechJias — the  land  of  the  infidels — while  your 
body,  rigid  as  in  death,  shall  await  its  return/  ' 

"And — "  whispered  Thorneycroft. 

"So  it  was  done.  But  I  gave  him  warning  that 
the  spell  would  last  only  a  certain  number  of  days. 


WINGS  41 

On  the  1 5th  of  January  his  astral  self  must  be  back, 
here,  in  the  palace  of  Oneypore.  On  the  I5th  of 
January!  Three  times  I  gave  him  warning!  And 
he  promised — and — " 

"He  broke  the  promise !" 

"Yes.  His  astral  self  was  caught  in  the  eddy  of 
foreign  life,  foreign  desires,  foreign  vices — per 
haps" — he  smiled  with  sudden  kindliness — "foreign 
virtues.  I  waited.  Day  after  day  I  waited. 
Came  the  I5th  of  January — and  he  did  not  return. 
For-—" 

"His  astral  self  died — in  England.  It  was  buried 
in  foreign  soil,"  Thorneycroft  interjected. 

"You  have  said  it,  Brother  Brahman.  And  now" 
— he  raised  his  hands  in  a  gesture  of  supplication — 
"though  I  have  prayed  to  Vishnu,  who  is  my  cousin, 
to  Shiva,  to  Doorgha,  to  Brahm  himself,  though  I 
have  offered  the  slaughter  of  my  own  soul  for  the 
homeless  soul  of  him  whom  I  loved,  the  evil  is 
done.  He  is  neither  dead,  nor  is  he  alive.  His 
soul  is  a  fluttering,  harrowed  thing,  whirling  about 
on  the  outer  rim  of  creation,  cursed  by  the  gods,  his 
kinsmen.  His  physical  body  is  here — on  this  couch 
— and  the  spiritual  self,  his  astral  body,  is  in  foreign 
soil— sullied,  sullied!" 


42  WINGS 

"And — there  is  no  hope?" 

"Yes!"  Again  the  swami  smiled  with  sudden 
kindliness.  "There  is  hope — the  shadow  of  hope. 
Perhaps  some  day  the  great  wrong  shall  be  forgiven 
by  the  gods.  Perhaps  some  day  they  will  cause  the 
two  parts  of  his  body,  his  physical  and  his  astral, 
to  blend  into  one.  Perhaps  some  day  they  will  per 
mit  him  to  regain  caste — and  to  die !  Daily  I  pray 
for  it" — and,  with  utter  simplicity,  as  he  opened  the 
door — "will  you  pray,  too,  brother  priest?" 

Thorneycroft  inclined  his  head.  He  was  an  Eng 
lishman,  a  Christian — and  a  public  school  product. 

But  he  inclined  his  head. 

"Yes,  swami,"  he  replied.  "I  will  pray.  Every 
day  will  I  pray!" 

And  the  door  shut  behind  him  with  a  little  dry 
click  of  finality. 


DISAPPOINTMENT 

IT  was  Paul  Mayol,  the  inimitable  low  comedian 
of  the  Scala,  who  started  the  ball  rolling,  as  far  as 
Paris  was  concerned. 

Perhaps  he  had  the  original  tip  from  the  desk 
clerk  of  the  Hotel  Saint  James,  where  Prince  Pavel 
Narodkine  had  put  up  temporarily;  perhaps  he  had 
it  from  his  mistress,  who  had  it  from  her  sister, 
the  laundress  of  the  hotel,  who,  in  her  turn,  had  it 
from  the  prince's  Italian  courier;  perhaps,  even,  he 
had  brought  it  back  from  the  green-rooms  of  Mos 
cow,  where  he  had  filled  a  triumphant  engagement 
the  season  before,  and  whence  Narodkine  had  re 
cently  arrived. 

At  all  events,  it  was  Paul  Mayol  who  was  first 
to  sense  the  tang  of  mystery  which  clung  to  the  big, 
melancholy  Russian,  and  who — since  in  Paris  it  is 
the  stage,  and  not,  as  in  New  York,  the  yellow  press 
which  does  the  scavenger  work  for  society — in 
cluded  him  among  the  characters  whom  he  imper 
sonated  and  satirized  in  the  new  Scala  Revue. 

43 


44  WINGS 

Mayol  came  on  in  act  two,  in  the  burlesque 
make-up  of  a  Russian  aristocrat  which  was  a  far 
cical  mingling  of  whiskers,  sable  furs,  vodka  bot 
tles,  ikons,  and  an  obligato  knout,  did  a  Cossack 
dance  with  Argentine  excrescences  and  George- 
cohanesque  frills,  and  introduced  himself  to  the 
audience  with  a  tense,  cavernous  "Sh-sh!  I  am 
Pavel  Narodkine,  the  great  Moscovite  enigma!" 
after  which  he  peered  right  and  left  with  all  the 
time-hallowed  stage  business  of  a  conspirator, 
caused  his  legs  and  his  whiskers  to  shiver  violently, 
whipped  the  property  calves  of  the  chorus  girls  with 
his  property  knout,  and  then  danced  off  to  the 
pizzicato  of  a  dozen  balalaikas  which  were  striving 
to  syncopate  the  Russian  national  anthem. 

Thus  the  beginning;  and  the  boulevards  caught 
the  ball  of  rumor  and  mystery  which  Mayol  had 
tossed  in  the  air.  They  gilded  and  tinseled  and  em 
bossed  it.  They  flung  it  wide  and  caught  it  again. 

The  next  morning,  cut  in  below  a  screaming  bit 
of  editorial  hysterics  which  accused  the  ministry  of 
having  sold  the  country  to  the  freemasons,  the 
atheists,  and  the  stock  exchange,  the  royalist  Gaulois 
brought  half  a  dozen  lines  about  Prince  Pavel 
Narodkine  speaking  with  pontifical  unction  about 


DISAPPOINTMENT  45 

his  great  ancestry  which  partook  of  Rurik  Vikings 
and  Tartar  Khans  of  the  Silver  Horde,  and  con 
gratulating  the  legitimist  clique  of  the  Faubourg  on 
the  arrival  of  such  a  thumping  blue-blood — and 
tossed  the  gossip  ball  to  its  editorial  neighbor,  the 
Vie  Parisienne. 

The  latter  weekly  acted  up  splendidly.  It  printed 
a  rotogravure  portrait  of  the  prince  in  a  border  of 
cupids,  chorus  girls,  three-horse  troikas,  sacks  of 
gold,  and  grisettes ;  mentioned  that  he  was  young,  a 
bachelor,  and  immensely  wealthy ;  and  added  that  as 
yet  he  had  not  thrown  his  scented  handkerchief  at 
the  feet  of  either  montfaine  or  demi-mondaine. 

"Why?" — demanded  the  final,  tart,  succinct  word 
of  the  page  in  four-inch  Gothic. 

The  next  move  was  up  to  the  Revue  Diplomati 
que.  In  its  personality  column,  entitled  "Mustard 
and  Cress,"  and  signed  "Junior  Attache,"  it  alluded 
to  the  fact  that  even  in  his  native  Russia  the  prince 
was  considered  an  engima.  "The  Sphinx"  was  the 
nickname  by  which  he  was  known  in  the  salons  of 
Moscow  and  Petrograd. 

A.nd  justly. 

For  he  had  no  intimate  friends ;  he  had  used  all 
sorts  of  political  influence  until  he  was  finally  ex- 


46  WINGS 

cused  from  military  service;  he  never  set  foot  in  a 
dark  place ;  he  eschewed  all  sport ;  and  he  never  went 
abroad  without  a  body-guard  of  five  heavily  armed 
peasants. 

"Sic  semper  tyrannis!"  screamed  the  socialistic 
daily,  La  Patrie. 

It  stated  boldly  that  Prince  Pavel  Narodkine  was 
a  reactionary,  a  leading  member  of  the  Black  Hun 
dred,  a  blood-gorged  oppressor  of  the  masses,  and 
that  it  was  his  fear  of  becoming  the  target  of  a 
patriot's  bullet  which  caused  him  to  shun  the  dark 
and  to  seek  the  protection  of  steel-girt  retainers — 
a  report  promptly  branded  by  the  Gaulois  as  "a 
filthy  and  reeking  falsehood  sired  and  darned  in  the 
fetid  gray-matter  of  our  socialistic  colleague."  The 
article  added  that  the  prince  had  no  enemy  either 
among  the  revolutionists  or  the  reactionaries,  that 
he  had,  in  fact,  never  occupied  himself  with  politics. 

Here  the  Vie  Parisienne  scored  again  with  a  snap 
shot  of  the  prince  walking  down  the  Boulevard  des 
Italiens  surrounded  by  his  armed  body-guard;  the 
Patrie  followed  by  demanding  why  "the  titled 
blood-sucker"  should  thus  be  allowed  to  break  the 
laws  of  the  republic  which  enjoined  the  carrying  of 
arms ;  the  official  Mercure  de  France  explained  that 


DISAPPOINTMENT  47 

the  prince  had  applied  for  a  special  permit,  and  had 
been  granted  it — and  thus  Paris  discovered  that  it 
housed  a  deep,  mysterious  sensation,  and  began  to 
wonder  what  it  was  all  about. 

From  Montmartre  to  the  Quartier  Latin,  from 
the  Porte  Saint  Martin  to  the  Ternes,  the  great 
macrocosm  of  Paris  commenced  to  stir  and  buzz  like 
a  beehive. 

A  string  of  would-be  visitors  besieged  the  desk 
of  the  Hotel  Saint  James — shirt-makers  and  boot 
makers  and  English  breeches-makers,  perfumers 
and  florists  and  jewelers,  cranks  and  reporters  and 
solicitors  for  charitable  institutions,  beggars,  genteel 
and  ungenteel — they  came,  they  were  met  by  the 
urbane  Italian  courier,  and  were  sent  on  their  way 
without  having  gratified  either  their  curiosity  or 
their  greed. 

The  great  society  ladies  fared  no  better.  They 
littered  the  prince's  writing-desk  with  invitations  to 
balls  and  dinners  and  receptions  and  garden  fetes  and 
theater  parties.  Those  with  marriageable  daughters 
made  ready  for  a  regular  siege.  They  consulted 
with  milliner  and  modiste,  with  Paquin  and  Virot 
and  Doucet  and  Reboux;  slim,  clever  fingers  ma 
nipulated  silk  and  lawn,  satin  and  gauze,  lace  and 


48  WINGS 

embroidery,  canvas  and  whalebone ;  the  granite  pav 
ing  blocks  of  the  Place  Vendome  echoed  under  the 
rapid  feet  of  models  and  saleswomen  and  errand- 
runners;  mothers  and  daughters  stuck  their  heads 
together — they  consulted — they  sought  the  advice 
of  ancient  dowagers  versed  in  marital  and  pre 
marital  warfare — and  still  more  invitations  were 
heaped  on  the  prince's  breakfast  table  with  every 
morning  mail. 

But  the  crested  notes  were  acknowledged  by  the 
Russian's  secretary,  who  read  them,  threw  them 
away,  while  regretting  "the  inability  of  Monsieur  le 
Prince  to  accept  mad&me's  so  charming  hospitality" 
— and  then  the  real-estate  brokers  came  to  the 
rescue  of  Mme.  Gossip,  though  they  only  succeeded 
in  deepening  the  mystery  which  enveloped  the 
prince. 

It  became  known  that  he  had  sent  for  MM, 
Dufour  and  Cazanet,  a  reputable  and  well-known 
firm  of  real-estate  men  who  in  the  past  had  sold 
palaces  and  chateaux  to  Chicago  pork  kings,  Welsh 
coal  barons,  and  Oriental  potentates.  They  called 
on  Narodkine — flattered,  delighted,  expectant;  and 
they  left — sadder,  but  no  wiser. 

For  the  prince  refused  to  buy  the  sort  of  show 


DISAPPOINTMENT  49 

place  which  befitted -his  rank  and  station  in  life. 
He  asked,  instead,  MM.  Dufour  and  Cazanet  to 
get  him  a  house  somewhere  in  the  most  crowded 
quarter  of  Paris. 

"No,  no,  no!"  he  exclaimed  when  Dufour  spoke 
of  an  aristocratic  old  stone  pile  buried  under  the 
pink  chestnut-trees  of  the  Rue  de  Varenne.  "I 
want  light,  gentlemen.  I  want  crowds  around 


•me." 


Here  Dufour  thought  of  the  armed  retainers  who 
accompanied  the  prince  everywhere,  and  he  winked 
at  his  partner;  but  the  Russian  did  not  seem  to  see 
the  incongruity  of  his  remark. 

"Yes,"  he  continued,  "I  want  to  sense  the  stir 
and  throb  of  life — life — right,  left,  everywhere!" 

"But,  Monsieur  le  Prince,  I  assure  you  this  house 
in  the  Rue  de  Varenne  is — " 

"It  is  gray  and  dark  and  lonely,"  the  prince  cut 
in.  "I  know.  And  I  want  life" — he  shivered  a  lit 
tle— "life  and  the  dear  breath  of  life !" 

He  bent  over  a  map  of  Paris  and  pointed  at  a 
certain  section. 

"Here,  gentlemen,"  he  went  on  in  a  tone  which 
admitted  of  no  further  argument ;  "get  me  a  house 
here — if  not  a  house,  then  a  flat,  a  hut,  a  hovel — 


50  WINGS 

anything,  anything!  But  it  must  be  here— where 
there  are  crowds  and  light  and  life !" 

The  two  Frenchmen  looked  at  the  prince,  who 
had  dropped  trembling  into  a  chair.  Then  they 
looked  at  each  other. 

Dufour  shrugged  his  expressive  shoulders  and 
motioned  to  his  partner. 

"Very  good,  Monsieur  le  Prince." 

And  they  bowed  themselves  out  of  his  presence 
and  set  about  to  fulfill  his  wish. 

But  of  course  they  talked,  and  Paris  listened  and 
wondered — and  laughed  a  little. 

Society,  still  smarting  under  its  recent  defeat, 
fried  to  attribute  Prince  Narodkine's  choice  of  res 
idence  to  stinginess — a  report  quickly  given  the  lie 
when  it  became  known  that  he  had  been  the  anon 
ymous  donor  of  a  lavish  contribution  to  Paris' s  pet 
charity.  The  Patrie  made  sinister  allusions  to 
royalist  intrigues;  the  Vie  Parisienne  to  a  tragic 
love-affair  back  home ;  but  nobody  could  explain  the 
prince's  choice. 

For,  as  soon  as  the  lease  had  been  negotiated, 
he  moved  to  a  little  house  of  the  Cour  de  Rouen — 
the  tortuous  alley  which  branches  off  from  the  Pas 
sage  du  Commerce,  and  which,  generations  ago,  had 


DISAPPOINTMENT  51 

been  the  Paris  home  of  the  Archbishops  of  Rouen 

-a  packed,  crowded,  noisy  alley  where  mansions 
of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries  lean 
against  each  other  for  mutual  support;  where  the 
windows  are  spotted  with  bird-cages  and  linen  hung 
out  to  dry  and  the  frowzy  heads  of  housewives; 
where  there  is  no  verdure  except  an  occasional 
sickly  fig-tree  straggling  along  a  rusty,  bent  water- 
pipe,  and  here  and  there  a  dusty  bit  of  clematis  and 
convolvulus  stretching  up — a  neighborhood  echoing 
'to  the  shrill  sounds  and  shouts  of  its  motley  popu 
lation,  news-venders  and  fruiterers,  bookbinders  and 
cobblers,  dealers  in  all  kinds  of  second-hand  odds 
and  ends,  locksmiths  and  knife-sharpeners — a  neigh 
borhood  made  yet  more  noisy  with  the  screams  and 
laughter  and  jests  of  a  school  for  little  girls  who 
file  through  the  alley  twice  a  day,  copy-books  and 
satchels  under  their  arms. 

Indeed,  an  alley  clanking  and  beating  with  life! 

And  Prince  Pavel  Narodkine  moved  in,  together 
with  his  armed  peasant  retainers — while  Paris  sat 
on  its  haunches  and  waited  developments. 

There  \vere  none. 

Prince  Pavel  Narodkine  lived  in  his  little  house 
.of  the  Cour  de  Rouen  as  he  had  lived  in  the  Hotel 


52  WINGS 

Saint  James,  and  as  formerly  he  had  lived  in  Mos 
cow;  never  leaving  the  house  after  dark,  never  set 
ting  foot  in  a  lonely  place  nor  where  the  shadows 
were  blotched  and  deep,  never  moving  an  inch  with 
out  his  armed  peasants — big,  lumpish,  brooding 
men,  savagely  silent  and  intensely  loyal,  who  shook 
their  heads  and  gave  no  reply  when  curious  peo 
ple  addressed  and  questioned  them  about  their 
master. 

So,  with  the  slow,  pitiless  swing  of  time  and  the 
familiarity  which  time  breeds,  Pavel  Narodkine  be 
came  part  of  the  city's  contemporary  history — he 
became  one  more  of  Paris's  unexplained  and,  in  a 
way,  accepted  mysteries ;  like  the  tall,  white-bearded 
Highland  Scot  who  for  years  has  walked  every  aft 
ernoon  from  the  Porte  Saint  Martin  to  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe,  dressed  in  kilts  and  plaid,  horn-handled 
dagger  in  his  stockings,  sporran  swinging  rhyth 
mically  to  the  skirl  of  an  imaginary  war-pipe;  like 
the  blind  American  who  twice  a  week,  rain  or  shine, 
takes  his  seat  on  the  pavement  outside  of  the  Cafe 
de  Naples  and  distributes  gold-pieces  to  all  passers- 
by;  like  the  plum-colored,  turbaned  Senegalese  who 
promptly,  every  morning  at  five,  prays  in  front  of 
the  statue  of  Strasbourg,  his  hands  spread  out  like 


DISAPPOINTMENT  53 

the  sticks  of  a  fan,  his  huge,  round  head  bobbing 
up  and  down  with  the  fervor  of  his  incantations. 

Another  year  came  and  passed.  Another  sensa 
tion  boomed  along  and  stirred  the  boulevards  and 
set  the  tongues  of  Paris  a-wagging;  the  personality 
of  the  prince  blended  still  more  deeply  into  the 
shadow  of  accepted  things — and  when  strangers 
saw  him  walk  down  the  street,  accompanied  by  his 
armed  servants,  with  his  big  body  slightly  trem 
bling,  his  great  purple-black  eyes  shooting  anxiously 
from  right  to  left  as  if  expecting  something  or 
somebody  to  pop  out  at  him  from  every  corner  and 
doorway,  the  people  of  Paris  smiled — kindly  and, 
too,  tolerantly. 

"Why,  yes,"  they  would  say;  "it's  that  Russian 
— Prince  Pavel  Narodkine — it's  a  habit  of  his,  you 
know" — as  if  that  were  sufficient  explanation. 

Perhaps  the  whole  mystery  would  have  been  for 
gotten  for  all  time  to  come  if  it  had  not  been  for 
Dr.  Marc  Henri,  who  explained  it,  but  only  after 
the  death  of  the  prince,  and  even  then  very  gently 
and  apologetically — quite  on  the  side  of  the  prince, 
you  understand. 

For  the  doctor,  a  short,  stocky,  ugly  little  man 
with  a  clever,  narrow  face  which  sloped  wedge- 


54  WINGS 

shaped  to  a  pointed,  inquisitive  chin,  was  a  French 
man,  with  the  sane,  sweet  logic  and  the  sane,  sweet 
sympathy  of  the  Frenchman ;  a  man  who  endeavored 
to  understand  everything  and  everybody,  and  to  con 
done  according  to  his  understanding. 

He  lived  just  around  the  corner  from  the  prince, 
in  an  old  house  of  the  Passage  du  Commerce,  next 
door  to  Durel's  quaint  book-shop — a  stone's  throw 
from  the  spot  where,  many  years  ago,  famed  M. 
Guillotin  had  made  experiments  on  sheep  with  the 
blade  of  his  newly  invented  "philanthropic  machine 
for  beheading." 

The  doctor  was  a  busy  man.  The  bell  of  his 
little  apartment  was  forever  tinkling ;  he  had  no  time 
to  read  more  than  the  headlines  of  either  Gaulois  or 
Patrie,  and  he  had  never  had  sufficient  leisure  to 
speculate  about  Prince  Pavel  Narodkine's  strange 
habits. 

And  then,  late  one  warm  spring  evening,  a  lump 
ish  Russian,  in  tall,  oiled  boots  and  silken  blouse, 
burst  into  his  office  and  implored  him,  in  a  terrible 
jargon  and  by  half  a  dozen  assorted  Greek  orthodox 
saints,  to  come  at  once  to  the  bedside  of  his  mas 
ter — "He  is  sick,  sick,  very  sick !"  The  doctor  felt 
there  was  no  time  to  lose,  and  so  he  picked  up  his 


DISAPPOINTMENT  55 

ever-ready  black  leather  case  and  was  out  of  the 
house  on  a  run. 

"I  am  suffering!  I  cannot  sleep'/'  was  Narod- 
kine's  thin,  querulous  greeting,  and  the  physician 
smiled. 

"I  don't  wonder,"  he  replied  tartly,  with  a  com 
prehensive  gesture  which  took  in  the  whole  of  the 
bedroom. 

For  the  windows  were  tightly  closed,  in  spite  of 
the  warm  spring  air;  every  lamp — there  were  half 
a  dozen  of  them — was  lit ;  and  the  air  was  yet  more 
hot  and  stuffy  with  the  presence  of  the  prince's 
peasants — big,  hulking  men  who  filled  the  atmos 
phere  with  a  tang  of  tobacco  and  leather  and  raw; 
spirits. 

The  doctor  was  astonished,  and  a  little  angry, 
too,  when  he  had  finished  examining  the  patient. 
He  was  in  the  habit  of  being  called  away  from  his 
house  at  all  hours;  but  the  prince's  messenger  had 
led  him  to  believe  that  his  master  was  on  the  very 
point  of  death,  and  there  was  really  nothing  the 
matter  with  him  except  a  slightly  congested  head 
and  a  corresponding  rise  in  temperature — an  ail 
ment  cured  easily  with  a  little  aspirin,  a  sound 
night's  sleep,  and,  of  course,  fresh  air. 


56  WINGS 

So  it  was  with  something  like  impatience  that 
he  threw  open  the  window  and  ordered  Narodkine's 
peasants  to  leave  the  bedroom,  and  he  was  more 
than  ever  astonished  when  the  latter  remained  stol 
idly  where  they  were  and  when  the  prince  backed 
their  dumb,  passive  refusal  with  eager,  excited 
words. 

"No,  no !"  he  cried.  "They  will  remain  with  me 
— I  need  them — I — " 

"You  tell  'em  to  clear  out!"  the  doctor  cut  in 
impatiently.  "You  have  to  do  as  I  tell  you  if  you 
want  me  to  treat  you!" 

It  was  only  when  he  picked  up  his  leather  case 
and  threatened  to  leave  that  Narodkine  spoke  to  his 
servants  in  purring  Russian,  ordering  them  out  of 
the  room. 

They  left — and  the  doctor,  keenly  tuned  to  ob 
servations  and  impressions,  was  positive  that  they 
had  only  gone  as  far  as  the  next  room,  ready  to 
return  at  their  master's  slightest  gesture  or  word. 
But  he  paid  no  further  attention  to  them. 

"You  need  sleep,"  he  said  to  the  prince,  "and  a 
cool,  dark  room." 

But  when  he  lifted  his  hand  to  turn  out  the  great 
Venetian  chandelier  which  swung  from  the  center 


DISAPPOINTMENT  57 

of  the  ceiling,  a  cry  from  the  bed  halted  him.  He 
turned — and  he  was  aghast  when  he  saw  the  prince's 
face.  The  man  had  suddenly  turned  a  grayish  yel 
low — "yellow  as  a  dead  man's  bones,"  the  doctor 
described  it  afterward — and  his  whole  body  was 
trembling  with  a  terrible  palsy. 

"No,  no!"  he  cried.  "Leave  the  lamps  burn — 
all  of  them!" 

Then,  in  a  sort  of  whine  which  was  both  ridicu 
lous  and  pathetic,  given  the  size  of  the  man:  "I 
will  not  have  a  dark  room — by  myself !  The  thing 
will  come!" 

"What  thing?"  asked  the  doctor,  and  he  added 
jestingly:  "You  aren't  afraid  of  the  dark,  are 
you?" 

He  was  utterly  amazed  when  he  heard  the  prince's 
reply. 

"Yes,  doctor,"  in  a  hushed  voice,  but  absolutely 
matter-of-fact,  like  stating  a  tiresome  sort  of  truth, 
"I  am  afraid." 

And  when  the  doctor,  who  had  no  respect  for 
titles,  made  a  succinct  allusion  to  "cowards,"  Na- 
rodkine  told  him. 

Dr.  Marc  Henri  never  found  out  if  it  was  be 
cause  of  a  sudden  liking  Narodkine  had  taken  to 


58  WINGS 

him,  or  because  of  a  sudden,  crushing  feeling  of 
loneliness,  that  the  other  confided  in  him.  But  he 
did  confide. 

"It  was  terrible/'  the  doctor  said  afterward, 
when  speaking  of  the  whole  happening  to  some  col 
leagues  of  his  at  the  Cafe  des  Reines;  "it  was  dra 
matic,  and  it  was  true  what  he  told  rne !  You  see, 
in  a  few  words  he  gave  me  the  reason  for  those 
strange  habits  of  his  which  so  intrigued  Paris  at 
the  time. 

"His  choice  of  icsidence,  there,  in  that  packed, 
pulsing  quarter — on  the  other  hand,  his  refusal  to 
take  his  share  in  the  amenities  of  society — sport, 
dancing — anything  in  fact  which  in  the  slightest  de 
gree  was  connected  with  danger — yes,  danger! — 
accidents,  you  see;  his  hatred  of  dark  places  and 
of  the  hours  of  night;  his  demand  for  bright  lights; 
the  armed  servants  who  accompanied  him  every 
where — why,  my  friends,  it  was  nothing  but  a  huge 
and  intricate  stage-setting  for  his  daily,  continuous 
fight  with  death. 

"Yes ! — he  feared  death !  Nor  was  it  the  every 
day,  shivering  fear  of  the  coward.  It  was  some 
thing  more  terrible,  more  gigantic.  It  was  some 
thing  in  a  way  primitive  and  sublime — "  and  Dr. 


DISAPPOINTMENT  59 

Marc  Henri  continued  in  the  prince's  own  words: 

"Doctor,"  had  said  the  prince,  "it  is  not  that  I  love 
to  live  nor  that  I  am  afraid  to  die.  I  fear  death 
— not  dying.  I  fear  that  fraction  of  a  second  when 
my  body  will  step  from  life  to  death,  don't  you 
understand  ?  I  dread  the — ah — the  utter  uselessness 
of  it — and,  too,  the  utter  ignorance!  What  is  it? 
What  does  it  feel  like?  What  does  the  whole  mys 
tery  consist  in?  Why  are  we  so  helpless  against 
it? 

"I — I  have  felt  this  fear  all  my  life — since  I  can 
remember — waking  and  sleeping  my  life  has  been 
a  continuous  martyrdom — and  I  have  always  tried 
to  fight  death — to  fight  sickness  and  accidents — 
with  light  and  life  and  even  with  steel.  So  I  shun 
sport,  I  shun  darkness  and  loneliness,  and  my  serv 
ants  never  leave  my  side.  But  what  is  the  use,  doc 
tor?  What  is  the  use? 

"For  death  is  a  coward — death  may  be  watching 
me  even  now — from  the  corner  of  the  room — about 
to  pounce  on  me  and  strangle  me !" 

"You  see/'  the  doctor  went  on  as  he  told  his  col 
leagues  across  the  marble-topped  table  of  the  Cafe 
des  Reines,  "the  prince  convinced  me  that  there  is 
a  grain  of  truth  in  the  Bible  after  all.  His  fear 


60  WINGS 

of  death  was  not  the  result  of  his  character,  his 
temperament,  his  mode  of  life,  his  education,  or  his 
ancestry — as  we  reckon  ancestry.  It  was  an  ata 
vistic  throw-back  to  our  first  forefather — Adam  or 
perhaps  Adam's  son,  Cain — when  he  realized  first 
that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  cessation  of  life,  but 
before  his  racial  memory  and  instinct  allowed  him 
to  coin  the  word  or  to  feel  the  meaning  of  death. 
That  was  the  trouble  with  Prince  Pavel  Narod- 
kine— " 

"Was?"  demanded  Dr.  Ruoz,  and  the  other  in 
clined  his  head.  "Yes — he  died  just  a  moment 
after  he  finished  telling  me  about  his  fear  of 
death—" 

"But — why — you  said  he  had  only  a  slight  con 
gestion — " 

"Exactly!  But  you  know  how  it  is  with  these 
big,  full-blooded  people.  His  confession  excited 
him  terribly — a  blood  vessel  burst  in  his  brain — " 

"Did  he  realize  that  he  was  dying?" 

"Yes,"  Dr.  Marc  Henri  smiled  gently,  "and  he 
— why — he  was  disappointed!  You  see — right  on 
the  moment  of  death,  when  he  knew  that  he  had 
lost  his  life-long  battle,  he  whispered  a  few  words 
— to  himself  really — 'Death!'  he  breathed;  and  then, 


DISAPPOINTMENT  61 

not  with  relief,  but  in  an  agony  of  disappointment, 
'Is  that  all?' " 

"Yes,"  added  the  doctor,  rising  and  calling  for 
his  check,  "and  he  repeated  it,  I  should  say  about 
a  minute  later — " 

"When  did  he  say  it — just  before  he  died,  I  sup 
pose?"  asked  a  young  medical  student  who  had 
joined  the  party.  And  the  doctor  replied  rather 
wearily  as  he  walked  toward  the  door : 

"No,  no— he  said  it — just  after  he  died,  you 
know!" 


TO  BE  ACCOUNTED  FOR 

IT  was  now  his  custom  to  sit  by  the  open  win 
dow. 

He  would  look  out  into  the  mean,  cramped  streets, 
at  the  jerry-built  houses,  and  up  at  the  high,  sharp- 
contoured  sky,  which  seemed  to  be  always  packed 
with  dirty  clouds.  Then  he  would  pity  himself,  and 
hate  the  rest  of  the  world. 

He  despised  the  present.  Yet  he  clutched  at  it 
with  both  hands,  and  was  surprised  and  irritated 
because  he  could  not  get  away  from  the  past. 

And  the  tale  of  the  past,  the  shame  of  it,  was 
hot  and  acrid  in  his  brain. 

That's  why  he  sat  by  the  window.  That's  why 
he  soaked  his  ears  and  his  soul  in  the  terrible,  muf 
fled  noise  of  the  great  city — those  sounds  of  death 
and  hate,  of  love  and  joy,  and  the  sharp  drum 
beats  of  thousand-armed  business.  At  least,  they 
spelled  a  living,  pulsing  world.  There  were  men 
there,  and  women — and  in  a  measure  they  com- 

63 


64  WINGS 

forted  him,  because  he  did  not  know  them  and 
because  they  did  not  know  him. 

So  he  felt  safe  with  them.  He  could  look  at 
them  without  blushing. 

It  was  only  when  he  turned  his  bad  .  to  the  win 
dow,  when  he  shut  out  the  world  from  his  ears  and 
his  eyes,  when  he  felt  the  choking,  mephitic  solitude 
of  the  four  walls  that  he  thought.  And  he  did  not 
like  to  think. 

For  here,  in  the  little  gray  room  on  East  Eleventh, 
with  his  back  to  the  world  of  strangers  who  cr  ^wded 
the  streets,  he  saw  the  life  which  he  lived  as  he  was 
living  it ;  and  it  was  mainly  expressed  by  the  furni 
ture  which  packed  its  corners — the  iron  bed,  the 
gangrened  deal  table,  the  ridiculous  spindle-legged 
bureau,  and  the  horrible,  fly-specked  chromos  on 
the  walls. 

Then  he  thought,  of  course,  of  the  little  cabinet 
in  his  mother's  salon,  back  there  in  the  castle  of 
the  Puys  de  Dome;  the  little  glass  cabinet  all  filled 
with  Tanagra  statuettes,  cups  of  Ming  celadon, 
enamel  from  Norway,  Meissen  and  Sevres  china, 
and  boxes  in  Vernis-Martin. 

Dry,  lifeless  things  they  were,  representing  so  and 
so  much  money  and  so  and  so  much  skill  and  artis- 


TO  BE  ACCOUNTED  FOR  65 

try.  But  to  him  they  meant  more.  They  meant 
the  brave,  clanking  hopes  of  his  youth.  They  meant 
the  name  and  the  pride  of  the  family  to  which  he 
belonged.  His  memory  had  ensouled  them  with  a 
softness,  a  tr-  obbing  which  was  deeper  than  the 
heart  of  woman. 

For  they  meant  to  him  the  things  he  had  lost. 
They  meant  to  him  the  things  he  had  thrown  away, 
the  things  he  had  hurt  and  cheated  and  polluted; 
the  name  he  had  disgraced,  the  escutcheon  he  had 
f  ouled— the  mother,  cold  and  haughty,  dry-eyed  and 
thin-lipped,  who  had  given  up  everything  for  him, 
and  given  up  in  vain — the  sister,  bitter  and  dower- 
less,  forced  into  the  convent  which  she  hated  and 
feared — the  younger  brother  who  had  to  sacrifice 
the  diplomatic  career  for  which  he  had  been  trained, 
to  go  into  the  office  of  a  fat  agent  de  change,  who 
patronized  him  and  bullied  him  because  of  the  no 
ble  name  he  bore. 

Why,  even  the  little  glass  cabinet  had  been  sold; 
even  the  dun-colored  Tanagra  statuettes,  the  boxes 
in  Vernis-Martin,  the  glasses  of  Galle-Nancy,  and 
the  many  other  objects  of  virtu. 

The  forests  had  been  sold,  the  fields,  the  paintings, 
the  famed  wine  cellar;  finally  the  house  itself;  the 


66  WINGS 

huge  gray  castle,  which  had  housed  one  of  his  name 
and  race  since  the  days  of  Pepin  the  Bold. 

Only  the  keeper's  lodge  remained;  and  there,  in 
the  damp,  flat-roofed  hovel  built  of  rough-hewn 
stones,  his  mother  lived  now — lived  like  a  peasant 
woman. 

And  he  was  here  in  New  York,  worthless  and 
nameless. 

He  clenched  his  fists.  He  gave  a  little  cry  of 
impotent  fury. 

Then  he  laughed.  He  thought  of  the  life-insur 
ance  agent  who  somehow  had  drifted  up  to  his  room 
that  very  morning  and  had  tried  to  insure  him 
against  death. 

The  fool!  To  ask  a  man  to  protect  himself 
against  the  only  hopeful,  the  only  pure  moment 
of  life! 

His  memory  swayed  up  into  the  past  as  the  sea 
sways  to  the  touch  of  the  moon. 

It  had  been  cards  at  first;  and  afterward  the  lit 
tle  ivory  ball  which  drops  so  noiselessly,  so  fate- 
fully: 

Vingt-quatre — noir — impaire — passe. 

Those  foolish  words  and  the  bits  of  gaudy  paste- 


TO  BE  ACCOUNTED  FOR  67 

board— what  a  tragedy  they  held — what  a  record 
of  weakness  and  selfishness  and  self-contempt ! 

He  felt  a  puling,  selfish  satisfaction  in  convincing 
himself  that  it  had  not  been  an  inborn  passion  with 
him ;  that  it  had  not  even  been  his  own  fault.  Dur 
ing  his  school  years  and  during  the  years  spent  at 
the  military  academy  he  had  never  touched  a  card. 
Even  during  his  first  ten  months  of  actual  army 
life,  after  he  had  received  his  commission  in  the 
Forty-Third  Infantry,  he  had  never  thought  of 
them — had  never  used  them. 

Came  the  maneuvers.  The  long,  heart-breaking 
marches,  the  bivouac  at  night ;  and  then  one  evening 
the  drawling  voice  of  his  company  commander, 
Captain  Xavier  Lesueur,  asking  him  if  he  played 
cards — baccarat  by  preference: 

"Non,  mon  capitaine." 

Lesueur  had  laughed. 

"Very  well,  my  little  innocent  provincial,  you 
must  learn.  We  must  have  a  little  distraction.  I'll 
teach  you  baccarat.  Nothing  to  it.  Simply  watch 
the  nines,  and  look  sharp  after  the  naturals.  You'll 
get  the  hang  of  it  in  no  time." 

The  rules  of  the  game  had  been  simple  indeed. 
He  had  mastered  them  inside  of  a  few  minutes, 


68  WINGS 

and  the  other  congratulated  him  on  his  quickness. 

So  he  had  played. 

And  he  had  lost. 

"Never  mind,"  the  captain  had  consoled  him. 
"We  must  all  stump  up  for  our  apprenticeship." 

The  play  had  been  small,  and  that  first  day  he 
had  not  lost  much — just  a  few  gold  pieces,  which 
did  not  worry  him. 

But  the  next  evening  some  cavalrymen  had 
dropped  in;  they  were  wealthy  men,  sons  of  Nor 
man  farmers  and  Lyons  bankers.  They  had  forced 
the  game  again  and  again  until  finally  the  roof  was 
the  limit. 

He  had  lost  more  than  the  rest.  He  had  wired 
to  his  mother,  and  she  had  promptly  remitted. 

Her  husband  had  been  in  the  army,  her  father, 
her  grandfather.  She  knew.  She  understood.  She 
even  laughed  a  little  at  the  tragic  wording  of  the 
telegram  which  he  had  sent. 

"We  must  all  grow  up,  my  boy,"  she  had  told 
him  on  his  visit  home  in  October,  when  he  had 
taken  a  short  leave  to  shoot  birds.  "A  little  cards 
will  not  hurt  you.  We're  not  paupers." 

At  the  end  of  the  maneuvers  his  regiment  had 
been  sent  to  Paris.  There  had  been  more  cards. 


TO  BE  ACCOUNTED  FOR  69 

More  losses.  Again  he  had  been  forced  to  write 
home.  This  time  there  was  no  ready  money  in  the 
bank.  His  mother  had  been  forced  to  sell  some 
forest  land. 

He  was  the  first  son,  after  all.  The  estate  was 
his. 

And  he  had  played  again.  He  had  tried  to  win 
back  what  he  had  lost ;  and  that  not  because  he  was 
greedy  after  either  money  or  cards,  but  simply  be 
cause  his  people  were  not  over-wealthy,  and  he 
wanted  to  recuperate  what  he  had  lost. 

So  he  had  made  a  study  of  cards.  He  had  the 
cold,  logical  Latin  mind,  and  set  himself  to  do  the 
thing  in  earnest.  He  learned  poker,  trente  et  quar- 
ante,  and  then  he  joined  the  Cercle  Richelieu  and 
passed  night  after  night  playing  roulette. 

Steadily  he  had  lost. 

Steadily  his  mother  had  sold  acres  and  acres  of 
forest  land — then  a  few  rich  acres  his  family  owned 
in  Corsica,  and  finally  the  vineyard  of  her  father  in 
the  Champagne  country  which  had  been  her  dowry, 
and  which  she  had  meant  to  pass  on  as  a  dower  to 
her  only  daughter.  That  also  had  gone. 

But  she  had  not  complained. 

Cold  and  haughty — he  was  her  first-born  son—? 


£o  WINGS 

his  was  the  name,  the  title,  the  traditions — he  must 
keep  up  his  position  among  those  shopkeepers  who 
crowded  the  army  since  the  empire  had  given  way 
to  the  republic. 

Let  him  play.     Let  him  lose. 

Presently  he  would  settle  down.  He  would 
marry  a  wealthy  bourgeoise,  and  with  her  money 
he  would  buy  back  everything  he  had  lost  in  gam 
bling. 

She  had  already  picked  out  a  bride  for  him. 

He  had  laughed  light-heartedly. 

"And  what  does  she  look  like,  the  little  one?" 

"What  difference  does  it  make?  You  will  not 
marry  her  for  her  looks.  You  will  marry  her  be 
cause  it  is  your  duty  to  yourself  and  to  your  fam- 
ily." 

Then  with  light  heart  he  had  returned  to  Paris, 
and  had  gambled  more  than  ever.  Enfin,  he  said 
to  himself,  soon  I  shall  have  to  settle  down  and 
marry.  Then  I  shall  have  to  quit  the  army  and 
Paris,  and  all  the  fun,  and  cultivate  my  paternal 
acres  in  the  Puy  de  Dome,  and  wear  gahers  and 
altogether  be  an  animal  of  a  farmer;  therefore, 
vogue  la  galere.  Let's  play,  and  the  devil  take  the 
hindmost. 


TO  BE  ACCOUNTED  FOR  71 

The  end  of  it  all  had  been  sudden,  shockingly 
unexpected. 

A  large  sum,  gold  and  paper  and  I.  O.  U.'s,  had 
been  on  the  green  cloth. 

One  more  ace,  he  thought,  studying  his  hand,  and 
the  pot  would  be  his — enough  to  buy  back  every 
acre  his  mother  had  been  forced  to  sell,  enough  to 
give  back  his  sister's  dowry,  enough  to  give  a  de 
cent  life  competence  for  the  little  brother  who  was 
studying  for  the  diplomatic  service,  enough  to  re 
lease  him  from  a  loveless  marriage. 

Just  the  one  pot,  the  one  big  gain — and  he  would 
never  again  touch  cards. 

Just  the  ace.     That  was  all  he  needed. 

And  it  was  there  in  full  view,  in  front  of  hirrL 
His  right-hand  neighbor  had  dropped  out  of  the 
game,  and  had  thrown  down  his  cards  upside 
down. 

He  had  turned  the  trick  very  clumsily.  There 
was  a  shout,  a  roar,  a  sharp-cutting  word. 

"You  cheat,  monsieur!    You  cheat!'' 

That  had  been  the  end  of  it  all.  Of  course,, 
there  had  been  no  court-martial.  Nothing  of  that 
sort  ever  happened  in  the  Forty-Third  Infantry. 
That  regiment  never  preferred  charges  against 


72  WINGS 

brother  officers.  [They  washed  their  dirty  linen  in 
private. 

Just  the  colonel's  hard,  dry  words. 

"Adieu!  Jhe  Forty-Third  does  not  want  you. 
Nor  does  the  army.  Nor  does  France." 

And  his  mother — -haughty,  stone-faced,  thin- 
lipped,  dry-eyed — had  echoed  the  simple  words. 

"The  Puy  de  Dome  does  not  want  you.  Your 
family  does  not  want  you."  A  little  pause.  "I 
do  not  want  you,  my  son." 

She  had  settled  his  debts,  and  it  had  ruined  her. 
She  had  paid  his  passage  to  America.  Now  he  was 
here,  in  the  little  gray  room  on  East  Eleventh, 
looking  at  the  strangers  who  crowded  the  streets, 
and  thinking  of  France,  of  his  mother,  of  his  reg 
iment. 

He  picked  up  the  afternoon  paper.  He  studied 
the  contents,  though  he  knew  them  by  heart. 

They  were  fighting — fighting  under  the  walls  of 
Lille.  They  were  hanging  on  by  their  teeth. 

One  report  mentioned  the  Forty-Third  Infan 
try,  cut  to  pieces  in  a  gallant  charge.  There  were 
three  lines  devoted  to  the  colonel — "Killed  in  ac 
tion." 

It  was  the  colonel  who  had  told  him: 


TO  BE  ACCOUNTED  FOR  73 

"The  Forty-Third  does  not  want  you.  Nor  the 
army.  Nor  France." 

Oh,  yes,  he  remembered  that;  would  always  re 
member  it.  He  laid  down  the  paper.  His  head 
sank  on  his  breast. 

Vague  shadows  seemed  to  come  from  the  dis 
tance;  they  enfolded  him;  they  took  his  breath 
away.  He  shut  his  eyes. 

Somewhere — to  the  east — he  thought  it  very 
strange — he  could  hear  voices  singing: 

"Amour  sacre  de  la  Patrie!" 

Oh,  yes,  the  marching  song  of  the  Forty-Third. 
They  were  fighting  down  there,  near  Lille,  hanging 
on  by  their  teeth. 

There  was  a  sound  like  the  tearing  of  fine  silk, 
a  shrieking  and  whistling;  then  a  sickening  thud. 

Sergeant  Castel  wiped  his  powder-blackened 
brows.  He  inserted  another  cartridge  in  his  rifle, 
drew  a  bead,  and  fired.  Then  he  turned  to  La- 
grange,  the  lance- jack. 

"The  end,  mon  vieux!  Presently  they  will  eat 
us  up." 

Lagrange  had  no  time  to  reply.  His  elbow  was 
in  continuous,  jerky  motion — load,  fire — load,  fire! 


74  WINGS 

There  was  another  tearing,  whistling  noise. 
Then  a  thud  and  a  gurgle.  This  time  it  had  done 
for  Lesueur,  the  company  commander. 

Castel  looked  at  the  stark  figure. 

"The  last  of  them— the  last  of  the  officers !" 

Lagrange  paused  between  shots.  His  rifle  was 
red-hot.  It  needed  cooling.  Half  a  cigarette  was 
stuck  behind  his  left  ear.  He  lit  it,  and  blew  the 
smoke  into  the  air. 

"Right,  mon  bougre!  The  last  one  indeed.  And 
we  need  officers — God,  what  do  I  say?  We  need 
one  officer,  just  one — to  give  the  word — to  lead — 
to  charge."  He  sobbed.  The  tears  flowed  down 
into  his  thick,  matted  beard.  "Just  one  officer — 
one!" 

His  voice  snapped  off  in  mid  air. 

He  stared  open-eyed.  A  trim,  boyish  figure  rose 
from  the  trench,  sword  in  hand.  He  waved  it  in 
circles. 

"Fix  bayonets!     Charge,  my  boys;  charge!" 

Lagrange  rubbed  his  eyes.  He  was  utterly  be 
wildered. 

"But  it  is  the  little  lieutenant.  But  he  had  been 
kicked  out  of  the  regiment." 

He  could  not  understand  it  at  all.     Again  he 


TO  BE  ACCOUNTED  FOR  75 

looked  at  the  trim,  boyish  figure.  Then  he  charged, 
together  with  the  others.  On  toward  that  belching 
belt  of  fire. 

The  servant  girl  knocked  at  the  door — twice, 
three  times.  There  was  no  answer.  The  landlady 
came. 

"Open  up  there — open  up !  You  can't  play  'pos 
sum  with  the  likes  of  me.  You  pay  your  rent  to 
day  or — " 

Suddenly  a  great  fear  engulfed  her.  She  called 
the  police.  They  forced  the  door  open. 

The  Frenchman  was  dead.  A  bullet  had  pierced 
his  heart.  No  weapon  was  found  in  his  room.  No 
trace  of  the  assassin  was  ever  found. 

But  the  doctor  who  examined  the  body  shook  his 
head. 

"Can't  account  for  it,"  he  murmured.  "That 
bullet  was  fired  from  a  great  distance — from  a  very 
great  distance.  And  yet  there  is  no  hole  in  win 
dow  nor  door  nor  wall." 

And  then  he  entered  the  case  in  the  little  book 
which  contained  his  private  collection  of  inexpli 
cable  deaths. 


TARTAR 

IT  was  only  when  Professor  Barker  Harrison 
was  in  his  private  study,  on  the  top  floor  of  the 
little  house  which  overlooked  a  corner  of  the  Uni 
versity  Campus,  that  faculties  in  his  soul,  hitherto 
silent  because  none  had  known  how  to  sound  them, 
rose,  singing  and  dancing,  to  the  surface. 

These  faculties  bred  thoughts  and  dreams,  and 
he  did  not  speak  of  them  to  anybody;  not  even  to 
his  wife,  whom  he  loved.  They  were  free,  un 
fettered  thoughts,  and  since  they  were  imaginary 
and  quite  unrelated  to  exact,  academic  science,  he 
was  slightly  ashamed  of  them. 

They  seemed  a  direct  throwback  to  the  earliest 
germs  of  his  racial  development  and  consciousness, 
dealing  as  they  did  with  clanking,  half -forgotten 
centuries  of  savage  memory :  the  days  of  stone  pil 
lars  bearing  the  rudimentary  likeness  of  an  idol; 
the  days  when  man  killed  man  glorying  in  the  deed 
of  it,  and  drank  fermented  mare's-milk  from  the 

77 


78  WINGS 

blanched  skull  of  his  enemy;  the  days  when  Rome, 
jeering  and  rude,  stole  an  alien  civilization  without 
understanding  it,  and  when  Gaul  was  the  home  of 
inarticulate  barbarians. 

Professor  Barker  Harrison  was  sane,  academic 
and  Anglo-Saxon.  For  he  did  not  believe  in  mes 
merism,  table-moving,  and  other  forms  of  occult 
acrobatics;  he  judged — and  dismissed — poetry  with 
a  Spencerian  smile  of  amused  sympathy;  and  his 
family  had  lived  in  the  same  small  Vermont  town 
for  more  than  three  hundred  years,  after  having 
thrived  for  the  preceding  seven  centuries  in  the  Eng 
lish  Midlands. 

Yet  in  his  study,  when  his  primitive  Self  disen 
tangled  itself  from  the  pack-threads  of  his  every 
day  life  and  surroundings,  when  his  mind  returned 
to  the  youth  of  his  race  and  the  beginnings  of  his 
Ego,  he  seemed  to  see  himself  a  short,  bow-legged, 
yellow  man,  with  a  square  chin,  heavy  snub  nose, 
angular  jaws  nearly  piercing  the  hairless,  cracked 
skin,  slanting  eyes,  and  pointed,  wolfish  teeth.  He 
seemed  to  see  himself  a  man  on  horseback,  whose 
horizon  was  bounded  by  the  endless  plains  of  Cen 
tral  Asia,  whose  only  reason  for  life  was  eating 
and  drinking  and  rapine,  whose  highest  aim  in  life 


TARTAR  79 

was  to  kill  single-handed  a  Mongolian  tiger  or  a 
Siberian  bear. 

And  when,  directly  on  the  heel  of  such  imag 
inative  half -hours,  he  went  for  a  stroll  through  the 
eastern  part  of  the  town,  which  housed  many  for 
eign  factory  workers,  he  felt  a  queer  straining  of 
sympathy  and  racial  communion  with  the  Finns 
and  Letts  who  were  returning  from  their  work,  and 
also  with  the  red-faced,  smiling  Cantonese  coolie 
who  was  smoking  his  long,  purple-tasseled  pipe  in 
the  doorway  of  his  little  laundry  shop. 

But — and  this  was  most  strange  of  all,  since  an 
old-fashioned  Knownothingism  was  his  political 
credo  and  since  he  was  heartily  in  favor  of  a  strict 
literacy  test  for  European  immigrants — he  felt  the 
greatest  sympathy  and,  in  a  way,  kinship  at  those 
moments  for  one  Ivan  Sborr,  a  man  of  unclassified 
Eastern  European  race  who  eked  out  a  meager  liv 
ing  by  cobbling  and  who  went  on  wicked,  weekly 
drunks. 

Ivan  Sborr  was  a  mild-eyed,  timid  man  of  huge 
physique  who  had  once  owed  allegiance  to  the  Tsar 
of  all  the  Russias.  Now  he  owed  allegiance  to 
anybody  who  looked  in  the  least  like  an  official. 
3ut  during  his  periodic  drunks  he  had  been  known 


8o  WINGS 

to  give  a  bad  half -hour  even  to  Patrick  O'Mahoney, 
the  new  Irish  sergeant  of  police,  who  was  kept 
in  continuous  training  by  encounters  with  victory- 
flushed  members  of  the  University  football  team. 

Professor  Barker  Harrison  became  so  used  to  his 
fantastic  thoughts  that  finally  they  seemed  more  to 
him  than  mere  projections  of  his  racial  conscious 
ness  run  amuck.  They  whirled  about  his  mind 
with  a  magnificent  thunder  of  action,  filling  him, 
somehow,  with  deep,  primitive  longings  which  were 
oddly  at  variance  with  his  chosen  work  and  his 
day-by-day  life. 

Not  that  he  disliked  his  life  work.  He  took  a 
massive  pride  in  it;  and  in  the  small  New  England 
university,  famed  for  its  exact,  scholastic  accom 
plishments  and  its  minute  research  work,  his  name 
was  not  the  least  known.  He  was  an  authority  in 
Slavonic  languages  and  literature. 

But  there  came  moments,  after  he  had  explained 
for  the  thousandth  time  the  baroque  mazes  of  the 
Cyrillic  alphabet,  after  he  had  explained  for  the 
thousandth  time  that  the  Russian  guttural  K  has 
the  spirantal  value  of  the  German  word  Dach,  when 
a  certain  impatience  took  him  by  the  forelock  and 
shook  him  .  .  .  quite  gently. 


TARTAR  81 

He  would  hurry  through  dinner,  giving  short  re 
plies  to  his  young  wife  (they  had  no  children), 
and  walk  up  to  his  study.  He  would  then  close  the 
door,  light  his  pipe,  and  surrender  himself  to  the 
backward  sweep  of  his  thoughts.  And  at  those 
moments  an  age-old,  unborn  life  seemed  to  come 
up  from  the  pile  of  books  and  reviews  which  lit 
tered  his  desk,  working  subtly  to  bring  about  a 
transformation  of  himself. 

He  pondered  with  an  ever-growing  measure  of 
bitterness  over  the  fact  that  his  wife,  college-bred 
and,  like  himself,  the  descendant  of  three  academic, 
well-laundried  generations,  did  not  understand  these 
moods.  She  loved  him  with  a  fine,  precise  love; 
and  he  loved  her.  There  was  no  doubt  of  it.  For 
she  wras  an  honest,  upstanding  woman. 

But  in  the  depths  of  his  soul  he  resented  the  fact 
that  with  the  unconscious  selfishness  of  the  good 
woman  she  had  folded  him  in  completely,  that  day 
after  day  she  tried  to  reach  more  deeply  into  the 
core  of  himself,  without  ever  guessing  or  feeling 
that  her  mate  had  an  imaginative  quality  and  an 
imaginative  double  life  which  was  as  literally  real 
to  him  as  a  house,  a  tree,  or  a  flower. 

Thus  he  blamed  her  because  she  did  not  compre- 


82  WINGS 

hend  the  richness  which  ran  in  his  blood  undiluted. 

Also  he  blamed  her  because  he  knew  that,  even 
given  her  understanding  of  his  unspoken  thoughts, 
she  would  discourage  their  trend  and  analyze  them 
quite  impersonally. 

She  on  her  side  felt  the  blame  without  formulat 
ing  to  herself  either  the  reason  of  or  the  possibility 
for  its  existence.  And  the  unformed  blame,  trick 
ling  down  into  her  heart,  charged  her  manner  with 
impatience  and  her  lips  with  drooping  bitterness. 

So  she  nagged  him. 

This  nagging  was  at  first  unconscious,  unpointed ; 
a  simple  and  logical  reflex  action  of  her  hurt  fem 
ininity.  But  when  she  saw  that  her  husband  was 
perfectly  indifferent  to  the  change  in  the  atmosphere 
about  him  her  nagging  became  invested  with  driv 
ing,  acrid  purpose. 

Yet  never  did  the  Professor  by  word  or  by  deed 
lay  himself  open  to  the  domestic  challenge : 

"Why  did  you  do  this?    Why  did  you  say  that?" 

It  was  true  that  he  hurried  through  his  dinner, 
that  he  took  the  cup  of  coffee  which  she  handed  him 
with  an  impatient  gesture,  that  he  lit  his  cigarette 
with  fingers  that  trembled  absurdly,  and  smoked  as 
hard  and  rapidly  as  though  his  life  depended  on  his 


TARTAR  83 

finishing  it  in  a  prescribed  time.  It  was  true  that 
he  left  the  dining-room  as  soon  as  he  had  finished 
his  smoke,  that  he  ran  up  the  stairs  to  his  study 
with  a  youthful  rush  of  speed,  and  that  on  two 
occasions  she  had  heard  drifting  down  from  there 
savage  shouts  and  strange,  barbarous  chants  which 
had  made  her  blood  run  cold. 

One  day  she  forgot  her  pride  and  asked  him 
point-blank : 

"Are  you  doing  any  special  work  up  there?" 

He  replied  in  the  negative.  Then  he  added, 
quite  unconscious  of  what  he  was  saying,  but  with 
a  queer,  thin  whisper  that  conveyed  the  gravity  of 
his  conviction  with  a  greater  impressiveness  than  a 
loud-spoken  word  would  have  done : 

"You  would  not  understand,  my  dear.  Nobody 
would.  I — oh,  well — " 

"What?"  she  cut  in  acidulously. 

"I — I — "  He  stopped,  blushed  painfully,  guilt 
ily;  then  continued  with  a  rush:  "I  am  living  the 
days  when  my  race  was  young  and  was  about  to 
conquer  the  world.  I  am  living  the  days  when  my 
forefathers  ate  and  slept  and  fought  and  loved  on 
horseback,  when  they  worshiped  the  god  who  was  a 
naked  sword,  when  they  slaughtered  a  thousand 


84  WINGS 

white  stallions  on  the  graves  of  their  dead  war- 
chiefs.  Ho !"  The  last  he  pronounced  with  a  high- 
pitched,  throaty  yell. 

His  wife  paled. 

"Good  Heavens,  Barker,"  she  said  tremulously, 
"don't  give  such  yells.  Your  undergraduate  days 


are  over." 


But  he  continued  as  if  he  had  not  noticed  her 
interruption. 

"I  am  living  the  days  when  a  strong  man  killed 
and  took  to  himself  the  cattle  and  the  wives  of  his 
slain  enemy." 

This  time  his  wife  turned  red. 

"Cattle!  Wives!  Barker  Harrison!"  she  cried 
sharply.  "What  do  you  mean?  You  speak  as  if 
you  were  a  Tartar !  And  your  name  is  good,  sound 
Anglo-Saxon,  thank  Heaven!" 

But  she  spoke  the  last  words  to  the  empty  air. 
For  already  her  husband  had  rushed  up  the  stairs 
two  steps  at  a  time. 

Upstairs  in  his  study  he  sat  down  at  his  desk 
and  lit  his  pipe. 

It  had  been  several  months  since  first  the  idea 
that  the  understanding,  the  very  reliving,  of  for 
mer  phases  of  civilization  and  racial  development, 


TARTAR  85 

of  former  individual  lives,  was  a  definitely  know- 
able  power,  accessible  to  the  trained  mind  of  the 
pandit,  had  commenced  to  haunt  him.  As  time 
went  on  the  idea  had  grown  on  him  until  it  was 
only  thinly  separated  from  actual  belief,  until  finally 
it  was  accepted  as  true — not  by  his  whole  conscious 
ness,  but  by  some  outlying  tract  of  it  which  was 
inactive  as  long  as  he  was  in  the  company  of 
others. 

When  he  lectured  at  the  University  and  when  he 
was  alone  with  his  wife  he  suffered  from  spiritual 
nostalgia.  Only  here  in  his  study  he  was  at  home, 
and  he  wandered  deeper  and  ever  deeper  into  him 
self,  into  some  state  of  tremendous  freedom,  sim 
plicity  and  brutality,  toward  a  zone  where  he  lost 
touch  with  all  that  had  hitherto  constituted  Life  to 
him — including  his  wife. 

And  to-day  the  belief  was  there,  alive,  palpable. 
Unconsciously  his  wife  had  touched  the  releasing 
spring  when  she  had  spoken  of  Tartars. 

He  trembled  with  a  fearful  joy. 

For  he  was  suddenly  positive  that  the  power 
which  had  haunted  him  was  his,  that  it  was  flash 
ing  across  his  brain  with  a  dazzling  sheen  that 
brought  him  to  the  threshold  of  ecstasy. 


86  WINGS 

The  past  enveloped  him.  It  possessed  him  com 
pletely. 

He  saw  himself  in  the  remote,  untamed  youth  of 
his  race.  The  past  came  to  him,  a  record  of  the 
measure  of  his  vision.  A  portion  of  his  brain — 
very  sane,  very  active — caused  him  to  perceive  him 
self  as  he  had  been  before  the  Migration  of  Peo 
ples,  the  earth-wide  wanderings  of  Celt,  Tartar, 
Visigoth  and  Scythian,  and  the  subsequent  crossing 
and  mingling  of  races  had  tempered  and  changed 
the  original  germ  which  was  his  Ego  into  Profes 
sor  Barker  Harrison,  Christian,  Aryan,  Anglo- 
Saxon,  American. 

He  beheld  himself  on  the  banks  of  the  Volga. 
He  saw  himself  a  warrior  among  warriors,  fight 
ing,  riding,  looting,  burning;  then,  in  the  scanty 
shelter  of  a  black  felt  tent,  which  was  surmounted 
by  a  standard  of  buffalo  hide  bearing  the  rough 
cognizance  of  his  chief,  he  saw  himself  at  meal, 
tearing  like  a  mastiff  at  raw  lumps  of  horseflesh 
and  quaffing  down  curdled  milk  poured  into  human 
skulls. 

Shadowy  figures  were  about  him.  Some  of  them 
reminded  him  of  the  high-cheeked  foreigners,  Finns 
and  Letts,  who  worked  in  the  factories  of  the  town. 


TARTAR  87 

One,  for  all  the  blue  tattoo  marks  on  his  forehead 
and  on  the  roots  of  his  flat  nose,  for  all  the  loose 
tunic  of  Mongolian  tiger  which  covered  his  mas 
sive  body,  was  an  exact  double  of  the  peaceful,  red- 
faced  Cantonese  coolie  who  kept  the  little  laundry 
shop.  And  another,  famed  for  his  great  strength, 
his  massive  thirst,  and  his  loud,  hoarse,  reedy  Av,j.r 
yells,  was  to  him  an  incarnation  of  Ivan  Sborr,  the 
cobbler  of  Russian  nationality  and  unclassified  race. 

Factory-workers?  Laundry  coolie?  Cobbler? 
What  did  those  terms  signify? 

To-night  they  were  his  equals,  his  friends,  his 
tribemates,  his  brothers-in-arms ! 

He  saw  them  in  the  twilight  which  grew  from 
pink  to  green  and  from  green  to  black.  They  were 
lifting  their  crude  weapons  to  the  naked  sword 
which  was  their  god,  and  shouting  a  barbarous 
song  of  triumph. 

He  joined  in  it,  and  his  voice  rose  clear  above 
the  voices  of  the  others. 

"Ho!"  he  chanted. 

"I  have  ridden  through  the  desert  which  dried  up  my 

skin  and  burnt  the  feet  of  my  horses. 
I  have  made  crimson  war  in  the  North  where  rivers 

roll  waters  that  are  solid  and  white. 


88  WINGS 

And  there  I  left  a  monument  to  my  prowess  ; 

A  pyramid  built  of  ten  thousand  heads. 

No  more  will  the  North  make  war. 

I  have  drunk  from  a  thousand  skulls  set  in  gold. 

I  have  slain  the  men  and  the  women  and  the  little 
children  of  the  many  lands. 

The  cowardly  Emperor  of  the  East  has  paid  me  ran 
som. 

But  I  took  his  wives  for  slaves. 

The  Emperor  of  the  South  opposed  me  with  his 
hordes  clad  in  silver  and  in  iron. 

I  smashed  them  as  the  whirling  millstones  smash  the 
dry  grains  of  the  field. 

Beyond  the  flat  lands  of  the  West  I  have  ridden,  a 
Conqueror,  and  the  shivering  men  called  me  the 
Scourge  of  God. 

For  I  am  Attila,  the  Hun !" 

Three  times  he  repeated  the  last  line,  winding 
up  each  time  with  a  blood-curdling  war-whoop. 
Then  his  imagination  took  another  magnificent 
bound  into  the  past  centuries. 

Attila?    Only  Attila?    Of  course  he  was  Attila. 

But  he  was  also  Attila's  descendant.  He  was 
Genghis  Khan  himself,  and,  by  a  second  magnif 
icent,  imaginative  flight,  he  was  also  the  Tartar 
Khan's  great-grandson,  Tamerlane,  he  whose  mau 
soleum  still  stands  in  the  ancient  city  of  Samarkand. 

"Ho!" 


TARTAR  89 

He  gave  another  war-whoop,  and  turned  to  his 
friends,  his  tribemates,  whose  shadowy  figures  were 
crowding  the  narrow  room.  There  was  chiefly  the 
red-faced  warrior. 

What  was  his  name? 

Oh,  yes,  he  remembered — that  was  Jemchug  the 
Tchuktche  Chief  to  whom  he  had  given  as  fief  the 
Empire  of  Khorassan ;  and  the  other,  he  of  the  great 
thirst — why,  it  was  Kublai  Khan,  his  own  brother 
— soon  he  would  send  him  to  the  farthest  East  to 
conquer  China  and  Japan — so,  before  the  parting, 
once  more  a  chant  of  triumph,  brothers ! 

"Hai-yai-hai!"he  yelled. 

"From  all  the  world  men  came  and  acknowledged  me 

Master. 
They  came  from  the  broad  plains  of  the  Danube  and 

from  China. 
From  golden  Byzanze  they  came,  and  from  the  eternal 

city  whose  founders  were  suckled  by  a  she-wolf. 
Bringing  presents  they  came,  the  many  envoys. 
But  I  spat  my  contempt  into  their  faces. 
For  I  am  Genghis  Khan !" 

,Then  he  yelled  as  an  afterthought: 

"I  am  Tamerlane! 

Also  am  I  Attila,  the  Scourge  of  God !" 


90  WINGS 

"Barker!"  a  sharp  voice  came  from  the  open 
door.  "Barker  Harrison!"  His  wife  came  into 
the  room.  "For  goodness'  sake,  what  are  you 
shouting  about?  What  is  the  matter?" 

The  Professor  turned  on  her  with  a  savage  roar. 

The  impudent  slave  woman,  he  said  to  himself 
— for  weeks  she  had  been  behaving  as  no  woman 
should  behave  to  her  master — and  now  she  had  en 
tered,  unbidden,  the  tent  of  warriors! 

He  raised  his  right  arm,  about  to  strike  her, 
Then^he  reconsidered.  No,  he  would  not  sully  his 
hand. 

He  turned  to  one  of  the  many  slaves  whom  he 
imagined  about  him. 

"Urbeck!"  he  said  majestically.  "Have  this  im 
pudent  slave  woman  well  beaten  with  knotted 
ropes !" 

Mrs.  Barker  Harrison  swooned  dead  away.  The 
Professor  looked  at  her  huddled  figure  unmoved. 
Again  he  commenced  his  barbarous  chant. 

But  suddenly  it  seemed  to  him  that  all  the  others 
had  disappeared.  Where  were  they,  those  yellow- 
skinned,  high-cheeked  men?  And  chiefly  the  two — 
his  brother  Kublai  Khan,  the  great  drinker  whom 
he  would  send  to  conquer  the  farthest  East,  and 


TARTAR  91 

also  Jemchug,  the  red-faced  warrior  whose  massive 
body  was  covered  with  a  loose  tunic  of  Mongolian 
tiger? 

Was  there  treachery  in  his  army? 

"Ho!"  he  shouted.    "My  trusty  sword!'* 

And  with  a  splendid  gesture  he  picked  up  a  light 
rattan  cane  which  was  leaning  peacefully  in  a  cor 
ner  of  his  room. 

Professor  Barker  Harrison,  wild-eyed,  bare 
headed,  his  right  hand  tightly  clutching  the  cane, 
rushed  down  the  stairs  and  out  of  the  house.  He 
cleared  the  front  step  in  one  bound.  It  was  late 
at  night;  it  was  lucky  for  him  that  the  neighbor 
hood  was  asleep  and  that  nobody  saw  his  martial 
exit. 

On  Cedar  Street  he  had  his  first  encounter  with 
the  enemy.  He  was  swinging  his  cane  in  the  air, 
chanting  at  the  same  time  another  song  of  triumph : 

"Hai-yai-hai !"  he  chanted. 

"I  am  the  Chief  of  the  Far  Tribes! 

Raw  horse-flesh  is  my  food! 

Curdled  milk  is  my  drink ! 

I  bathe  my  mighty  limbs  in  the  blood  of  my  ene 
mies!" 

He  made  a  stabbing  motion  with  his  rattan  cane, 


92  .WINGS 

and  something  soft  and  human  squirmed  rapidly 
to  one  side,  giving  a  loud  howl  of  pain  and  pas 
sionate  entreaty. 

Professor  Barker  Harrison's  blood  was  up, 

"Ho!"  he  shouted.  "Dog!  Swine!  Traitor!" 
He  made  another  stab  with  his  rattan,  connected 
again,  and  caused  another,  louder  howl  of  pain  and 
entreaty.  "To-night  I  shall  drink  from  thy  blanched 
skull!" 

The  man  whom  he  had  poked  fell  on  his  knees 
and  held  up  both  his  hands.  He  was  a  peaceful, 
elderly  negro  by  the  name  of  George  Washington 
Jefferson  Ransome,  and  he  was  not,  as  a  rule,  afraid 
of  undergraduates,  drunk  or  sober. 

But  this  one  was  dangerous,  he  thought.  He 
was  singing  of  eating  raw  flesh  and  of  bathing  his 
mighty  limbs  in  the  blood  of  his  enemies. 

"Lawdamessy !"  he  bawled.  "I  ain't  done  yoh 
no  ha'm,  suh.  Fo*  de  Lawd's  sake,  doan'  yoh  do 
dis  'yeah  thing  to  me.  /  ain't  yoh  enemy!  No, 
suh.  Please  .  .  .  doan'  yoh  go  an*  bathe  yoh 
mighty  limbs  in  dis  po*  niggah's  blood !" 

The  Professor  did  not  reply.  He  stabbed  again 
with  his  rattan  cane. 

But  the  old  negro  did  not  wait.     He  jumped 


TARTAR  93 

backward  and  ran  away  as  fast  as  his  elderly  legs 
would  let  him. 

Barker  Harrison  smiled.  He  turned  to  an  imag 
inary  chief. 

"Catch  me  this  black  man !"  he  commanded  curtly. 
"To-morrow  morning  we  shall  crucify  him  to  a 
wooden  cross!*' 

Then  he  thought  again  of  Jemchug,  the  red- faced 
one.  Where  was  he?  Had  he  really  turned  trai 
tor?  He  passed  his  hand  across  his  face.  Why 
...  he  knew  .  .  .  the  red- faced  one  was  down 
there  ...  in  his  shop,  on  the  corner  of  Main 
Street. 

Shop?  Main  Street?  What  was  a  shop ?  What 
was  Main  Street?  What,  in  the  name  of  the  many 
gods,  was  a  street f  There  was  only  the  Volga,  the 
plains,  the  tents  and  the  skies ! 

Still  ...  he  must  find  him  ...  his  brother-in% 
arms,  ...  so  that  together  they  could  find  his 
brother  Ktiblai  Khan,  the  mighty  drinker.  .  .  . 

Professor  Barker  Harrison  ran  up  Main  Street 
and  straight  into  the  shop  of  Wu  Kee,  laundryman. 

When  the  latter  saw  the  strange,  wild-eyed  figure 
bounce  in,  cane  in  hand,  his  instinct  advised  him 
to  beat  a  hasty  retreat 


94  WINGS 

Although  he  had  lived  in  America  for  over  thirty 
years,  he  still  considered  the  foreigners  a  mad  race, 
who  should  be  mistrusted  on  sight  and  who  were 
moved  by  impulses  which  were  partly  savage,  partly 
amusing,  but  altogether  incredible.  But  he  kept  his 
seat  and  his  sang-froid  when  he  recognized  the  fea 
tures  of  his  visitor.  For  he  had  done  his  laundry 
for  five  years,  had  received  payment  promptly  every 
Thursday  morning,  and  had  exchanged  daily  and 
very  punctilious  greeting  with  him. 

So  he  bade  him  a  pleasant  "good  evening/' 

But  the  next  moment  he  wished  that  he  had  fol 
lowed  the  original  promptings  of  his  instinct. 

For  the  Professor  lifted  him  bodily  out  of  his 
chair,  threw  his  arms  about  his  shoulders,  drew 
him  to  his  bosom,  and  apostrophized  him  as  "war 
rior"  and  "Jemchug"  and  "brother-in-arms." 

The  Chinese  disengaged  himself  from  the  other's 
embrace. 

"Hey?     You  dlunk?"  he  queried  dispassionately. 

The  Professor  did  not  reply.  He  embraced  the 
Chinaman  again,  and  so  once  more  the  latter  re 
peated  his  words. 

Only  this  time  they  were  less  a  question  than  the 
statement  of  a  calm,  prosaic  fact. 


TARTAR  95 

"You  dlunk!    You  velly  dlunk!"  he  said. 

The  Professor  did  not  understand  the  meaning 
of  the  words.  But  he  felt,  he  understood,  the  con 
tempt  which  underlay  them.  For  a  moment  he  was 
hurt. 

Could  it,  then,  be  that  Jemchug,  the  great 
Tchuktche  Chief  to  whom  he  had  given  as  fief  the 
Empire  of  Khorassan,  had  turned  traitor? 

Suddenly  a  great  rage  overcame  him. 

"Die,  traitor!"  he  shouted,  and  he  smote  the 
Chinaman  over  the  head  with  his  elastic  rattan  cane. 

Wu  Kee  became  enraged  in  his  turn. 

"Wassahellamallajowf "  he  asked,  all  in  one  word. 

He  picked  up  a  nearly  red-hot  pressing-iron  and 
applied  it  with  savage  aim  on  the  seat  of  the  Pro 
fessor's  trousers. 

Barker  Harrison  yelled  with  pain  and  fury. 

"Treason!  Treason!"  he  shouted.  "Kublai 
Khan!  Brother  mine!  To  the  rescue!  To  the 
rescue!" 

He  rushed  out  of  the  shop. 

He  ran  up  and  down  the  street,  waving  his  rat 
tan  cane. 

Where  was  Kublai  Khan?  Where  was  his  be 
loved  brother,  he  of  the  great  thirst? 


96  WINGS 

A  vague  remembrance  came  back  to  him.  Why 
— yes — Kublai  Khan  was  hiding  in  the  land  of  the 
enemies — he  was  spying  out  the  land  under  the 
menial  guise  of  a  cobbler.  He  went  by  the  name 
of  Ivan  Sborr. 

And  there — was  that  not  Kublai  Khan's  voice — 
calling — for  help,  for  help? 

Professor  Barker  Harrison  followed  the  direction 
of  the  voice,  and  he  was  not  mistaken. 

For  Ivan  Sborr  had  gone  that  evening  on  an 
extra-luxurious  spree,  and  was  now  engaged  in  sav 
age  battle  with  Patrick  O'Mahoney,  the  Irish  ser 
geant  of  police,  who  was  trying  to  propel  him  to 
ward  the  station  house. 

Professor  Barker  Harrison  saw  the  scene  and 
gave  his  war-whoop. 

"Ho!"  he  shouted.  "Take  heart,  lion-brother  of 
mine!  For  I  am  coming  to  thy  rescue!" 

He  came. 

But  by  this  time  the  sergeant  had  clubbed  the 
Russian  into  unconsciousness  and  was  ready  for  the 
new  protagonist. 

"So  ye'll  be  afther  helpin'  them  f  what's  thryin' 
to  resist  arrest,  are  yez  ?"  he  cried.  "Take  thot  for 
a  starter,  me  lad!"  and  he  paralyzed  the  Profes- 


TARTAR  97 

sor's  right  arm  with  a  blow  of  his  hickory,  so  that 
the  rattan  cane  fell  to  the  ground. 

O'Mahoney  jerked  the  Professor  up  by  the  collar. 

"An'  fwhat  may  yer  name  be,  me  bucko?" 

"I  am  Attila,  the  Scourge  of  God!"  chanted  the 
Professor. 

The  Irishman  smiled. 

"Glory  be — but  it's  a  foine  scourrge  ye  are,  me 
lad!  Take  thot  then  for  bein'  a  scourrge!"  and 
he  tapped  him,  not  very  gently,  with  his  hickory. 

But  the  Professor  was  not  subdued. 

"I  am  Attila!"  he  shouted  again.  "I  am  Genghis 
Khan!  I  am  Tamerlane!" 

O'Mahoney  whistled  through  his  teeth. 

"Ye  are,  are  ye?  All  three  of  them?  Begorry, 
I  think  ye're  a  dangerous  character,  and  the  chief'll 
be  afther  wantin'  ye." 

And  so  he  fetched  him  a  wallop  on  the  ear,  whis 
tled  for  the  police  wagon,  tumbled  both  his  prison 
ers  inside,  and  made  a  long  report  to  the  captain, 

"Captain,"  he  said,  "of  course,  I  know  old  Ivan. 
It's  just  his  weekly  dhrunk,  and  divil  a  bit  o'  harrm 
did  he  mean.  But  there's  another  lad — and  I  think 
he'll  be  wanted  by  the  police  in  Boston.  He  gave 
me  three  aliases — wait  till  I  write  'em  down." 


98  WINGS 

He  took  the  blotter,  and  there,  under  the  proper 
rubric,  he  filled  in  the  following: 

O'Dillora,  Christian  name  unknown. 

He  looked  up  at  the  captain. 

"Faith,"  he  said,  "and  he  added  that  the  lads 
call  him  the  scourrge,  the  fwhich  I  think  is  one  o' 
them  blood-currlin'  names  the  Boston  gangsters  are 
afther  givin'  to  each  other/' 

Again  he  wrote  in  the  blotter. 

Alias  Gennis  Kahn. 

"Sounds  Sheeny  to  me,  captain,"  he  commented, 
"though,  begabs,  he  don't  look  like  one." 

Once  more  the  pen  scratched  over  the  hard  paper : 

Alias  Thomas  Lane. 

"And  that  last  one,"  concluded  O'Mahoney,  "may 
be  his  real  name.  For,  faith,  Lane's  a  Noo  Eng 
land  name,  and  the  lad  looks  to  me  more  like  a 
native  than  like  O'Dillon,  which  is  Irish,  or  Kahn, 
which  is  Sheeny." 

"All  right,"  said  the  captain.  "Let's  have  a  look 
at  the  prisoner." 


TARTAR  99 

He  walked  over  to  the  cell  and  opened  the  door. 
The  Professor  was  stretched  out  on  the  narrow 
bench,  snoring  quite  peacefully.  The  captain  gave 
one  look.  Then  he  let  out  a  yell  of  surprise. 

"Good  heavens!  It's  Professor  Barker  Harri 
son!" 

He  explained  to  the  mystified  O'Mahoney  in  a 
furious  whisper. 

The  latter  shook  his  head. 

"Begabs  an'  I  can't  help  it  at  all,  at  all.  He 
assaulted  me.  He  gave  me  them  aliases.  And  I 
swear  by  the  Blessed  Virgin  that  he  was  sober  as 
you  and  me,  captain." 

The  captain  shook  his  head. 

"Poor  fellow!"  he  said.  "Overwork — or  I'm  a 
Dutchman." 

So  he  quashed  the  charges  and  telephoned  to  the 
Professor's  wife,  who  by  this  time  had  come  out 
of  her  swoon  and  was  horribly  worried  over  her 
husband's  absence. 

She  came.  The  captain  explained  to  her.  To 
gether  they  awakened  the  Professor. 

When  the  Professor  came  to  he  gave  another 
war-wrhoop. 

"Ho!"  he  said.     "There  is  that  impudent  slave 


ioo  WINGS 

woman  again.  Did  I  not  give  orders  to  have  her 
soundly  beaten?" 

Nobody  answered  him.  But  they  all  stared  at 
him,  puzzled,  wondering  what  to  do.  He  stared  at 
them  in  return. 

Then,  very  gradually,  a  peculiar  dislocation  of 
ideas  came  over  his  mind.  For  a  few  moments  he 
seemed  to  be  taking  part  in  a  whirling  gambol  in 
which  his  own  Ego,  that  of  the  people  around  him 
and  twenty  centuries  of  human  history  and  civiliza 
tion  were  madly  mixed  up  together.  Then  a  small 
fragment  of  his  consciousness  seemed  to  separate 
itself.  It  seemed  to  be  watching,  within  his  brain, 
the  other  fragments  of  his  consciousness  which  were 
behaving  in  a  perfectly  incredible  and  perfectly  in 
sane  manner.  He  saw  and  studied  those  fragments 
like  detached  and  separate  projections  of  his  Ego. 

Very  slowly,  he  recognized  his  body.  He  rec 
ognized  the  body  and  the  personality  of  his  wife, 
of  the  captain  of  police,  of  the  sergeant.  His  eyes 
traveled,  and  he  recognized  the  body  and  the  per 
sonality  of  Ivan  Sborr  who  was  sleeping  out  his 
drunk  in  the  next  cell. 

And,  suddenly,  he  understood.  He  put  his  hand 
to  his  head. 


TARTAR  101 

"Good  Lord !"  he  murmured. 

The  captain  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"Go  home  with  your  wife,  Professor,"  he  said 
in  a  kindly  voice.  "You've  worked  too  hard.  No- 
body'll  hear  about  your  little  escapade." 

The  Professor  did  as  he  was  bid.  He  took  ten 
grains  of  veronal  and  slept  the  next  day  until  noon. 
He  dressed,  went  downstairs,  and  took  his  accus 
tomed  place  at  the  luncheon  table. 

His  wife  was  mixing  the  dressing  for  the  salad. 
She  looked  up. 

"Barker!"  she  said. 

The  Professor  was  all  attention. 

"Yes,  dearest?"  he  asked  in  a  small  voice. 

"Will  you  do  me  a  favor?" 

"Yes,  dearest.     Anything!    Anything!" 

His  wife  smiled — and  to  his  dying  day  the  Pro 
fessor  did  not  know  if  the  smile  was  sweet  or 
bitter. 

"Would  you  mind,  Barker,  the  next  time  you  live 
through  a  period  of  the  past,  picking  out  a  char 
acter  from  Bishop  Taylor's  'Lives  of  the  Saints'?" 

And  she  rang  the  bell  for  the  maid  to  bring  in 
hot  plates. 


RENUNCIATION 

WHEN  she  came  to  him  that  night,  forty-eight 
hours  before  he  sailed  for  France  with  his  battalion, 
she  did  so  of  her  own  free  will. 

For  he  had  not  seen  her;  he  had  not  written  to 
her;  he  had  even  tried  not  to  think  of  her  since  that 
shimmering,  pink-and-lavender  noon  of  early  June, 
two  years  earlier,  when,  in  rose  point  lace  and 
orange-blossoms,  she  had  walked  up  the  aisle  of 
St.  Thomas's  Church  and  had  become  the  wife  of 
Dan  Coolidge. 

Her  low,  trembling  "I  will!"  had  sounded  the 
death-knell  of  Roger  Kenyon's  tempestuous  youth. 
He  had  plucked  her  from  his  heart,  had  uprooted 
her  from  his  mind,  from  his  smoldering,  subcon 
scious  passion  had  cast  the  memory  of  her  pale,  pure 
oval  of  a  face  to  the  limbo  of  visions  that  must  be 
forgotten. 

It  seemed  strange  that  he  could  do  so ;  for  Roger 
had  always  been  a  hot-blooded,  virile,  inconsiderate 

103 


104  WINGS 

man  who  rode  life  as  he  rode  a  horse,  with  a  loosf 
rein,  a  straight  bit,  and  rowel-spurs.  He  had  al 
yvays  had  a  headstrong  tendency  to  hurdle  with 
tense,  savage  joy  across  the  obstacles  he  encoun 
tered — which  were  of  his  own  making  as  often 
as  not. 

He  had  been  in  the  habit  of  taking  whatever  sen 
sations  and  emotions  he  could — until  he  had  met 
Josephine  Erskine  up  there  in  that  sleepy,  drab  New 
England  village  where,  for  a  generation  or  two,  her 
people  had  endeavored  to  impose  upon  the  world 
with  a  labored,  pathetic,  meretricious  gentility. 

Heretofore,  woman  had  meant  nothing  to  him 
except  a  charming  manifestation  of  sex. 

Then  suddenly,  like  a  sweet,  swift  throe,  love  had 
come  to  him  in  Josephine's  brown,  gold-flecked  eyes 
and  crimson  mouth. 

He  had  told  her  so  quite  simply  as  they  walked 
in  the  rose-garden ;  but  she  had  shaken  her  head. 

"No,  Roger,"  she  had  replied. 

"Why  not?" 

"I  do  not  love  you." 

She  told  him  that  she  was  going  to  become  the 
wife,  for  better  or  for  worse,  of  Dan  Coolidge,  a 
college  chum  of  his — a  mild,  bald-headed,  paunchy, 


RENUNCIATION  105 

stock-broking  chap  with  a  steam-yacht,  a  garage  full 
of  imported,  low-slung  motor-cars,  a  red-brick-and- 
white- woodwork  house  on  the  conservative  side  of 
Eleventh  Street,  a  few  doors  from  Fifth  Avenue, 
a  place  in  Westchester  County  at  exactly  the  correct 
distance  between  suburbia  and  yokeldom ;  four  serv 
ants,  including  a  French — not  an  English — butler; 
and  a  mother  who  dressed  in  black  bombazine  and 
bugles. 

"Yes,"  she  had  said  in  a  weak,  wiped-over  voice, 
"I  am  going  to  marry  Dan." 

"Because  you  love  him — and  because  you  don't 
love  me  ?" 

"Yes,  Roger!" 

He  had  laughed — a  cracked,  high-pitched  laugh 
that  had  twisted  his  dark,  handsome  face  into  a  sar 
donic  mask. 

"You  lie,  my  dear,"  he  had  replied  brutally,  and 
when  she  gasped  and  blushed  he  had  continued: 
"You  lie — and  you  know  you  do!  You  love — me  I 
I  can  feel  it  in  my  heart,  my  soul,  in  every  last  fiber 
and  cell  of  my  being.  I  can  feel  it  waking  and 
sleeping.  Your  love  is  mine,  quite  mine — a  thing 
both  definite  and  infinite.  You  don't  love  Dan !" 

"But—" 


io6  WINGS 

"I'll  tell  you  why  you're  going  to  marry  him. 
It's  because  he  has  money,  and  I  have  no  financial 
prospects  except  a  couple  of  up-State  aunts  who 
are  tough  and  stringy,  and  who  have  made  up  their 
minds  to  survive  me,  whatever  happens." 

"I  must  think  of  mother  and  the  girls,"  had  come 
her  stammered  admission  through  a  blurred  veil 
of  hot  tears;  "and  Fred — he  must  go  to  Har 
vard—" 

"Right!  You  have  your  mother,  and  the  girls, 
and  Fred,  and  the  rest  of  your  family,  and  they'll 
all  live  on  Dan's  bounty  and  on  the  sacrifice  you're 
making  of  yourself — not  to  mention  myself  I" 

Then,  after  a  pause,  taking  her  by  both  her  slen 
der  shoulders,  he  went  on: 

"I  could  make  love  to  you  now,  my  dear.  I  could 
crush  you  in  my  arms — and  you'd  marry  Dan  aft 
erward,  and  somehow  strike  a  compromise  between 
your  inbred,  atavistic  Mayflower  Puritanism  and 
the  resolute  Greek  paganism  which  is  making  your 
mouth  so  red.  But" — as  she  swayed  and  trem 
bled — "I  won't!  I'm  going  to  play  the  game!" 

She  said  nothing.     He  laughed  and  spoke  again : 

"Confound  it!  You  can  put  your  foot  on  every 
decency,  on  every  bully,  splendid  emotion,  on  the 


RENUNCIATION  107 

blessed  decalogue  itself — as  long  as  you  play  the 
game!" 

So  he  had  gone  away,  after  being  Dan's  best  man, 
to  his  little  plantation  in  South  Carolina. 

For  two  years  he  had  not  seen  her,  had  not  writ 
ten  to  her,  had  even  tried  not  to  think  of  her — • 

And  there  she  stood — now — on  the  threshold  of 
his  room  in  the  discreet  little  hotel  where  he  had 
put  up,  with  a  grinning,  plump  boy  in  buttons,  his 
hand  well  weighted  with  money,  winking  as  if  to 
say: 

"It's  O.  K.,  boss.  I'm  goin'  to  keep  mum,  all 
right,  all  right!" 

Then  the  boy  closed  the  door,  and  the  bolt 
snapped  into  the  lock  with  a  little  steely,  jeering 
click. 

She  was  dressed  in  white  from  head  to  foot ;  only 
her  lips  were  red,  and  the  long-stemmed  Gloire  de 
Dijon  rose  that  she  held  in  her  hand. 

She  spoke  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice,  as  if  contin 
uing  a  conversation  that  had  been  interrupted  just 
for  a  second  by  the  entry  of  a  servant  or  the  post 
man's  whistle: 

"Don't  you  see,  Roger?    I  had  to  come.     I  had 


io8  WINGS 

to  say  good-by  to  you — before  you  sail  for  France !" 

He  did  not  move  from  where  he  stood  between 
the  two  windows,  with  the  moonlight  drifting  across 
his  shoulders  into  the  dim,  prosy  hotel  room,  and 
weaving  a  fantastic  pattern  into  the  threadbare 
carpet. 

There  was  surprise  in  his  accents,  and  a  keen, 
peremptory  challenge. 

"How  did  you  know  that  I  was  booked  to  sail? 
Our  orders  are  secret.  I  am  here  on  a  special  mis 
sion  until  the  day  after  to-morrow — incognito,  at 
that  Josephine,  how  did  you  find  me  out?  Who 
told  you  that  I  was  here  ?" 

She  smiled. 

"Of  course  I  knew,  dear.  How  could  I  help 
knowing?" 

Suddenly,  strangely,  the  explanation — what  there 
was  of  it — seemed  lucid  and  satisfactory  and  rea 
sonable,  and  he  crossed  the  room  and  bowed  over 
her  hand.  He  took  the  rose  from  her  narrow, 
white  fingers  and  inhaled  its  heavy,  honeyed 
fragrance. 

"A  rose  from  your  garden!"  He  heard  his  own 
voice  coming  in  an  odd  murmur.  "From  your  gar 
den  up  there  in  the  little  New  England  village!" 


RENUNCIATION  109 

"Yes,  Roger." 

"Did  your  mother  send  it  to  you?" 

"No,  I  picked  it  myself.  It  kept  fresh,  didn't  it, 
Roger  dear?" 

"Yes." 

He  remembered  the  garden  where  they  had 
walked  side  by  side,  two  years  earlier — where  he 
had  told  her  of  his  love. 

It  was  the  one  splotch  of  color,  the  one  sign  of 
the  joy  of  life,  in  the  whole  drab  Massachusetts 
community,  this  old  garden  which  the  Erskine  fam 
ily  had  jealously  nursed  and  coddled  for  genera 
tions.  It  was  a  mass  of  roses,  creepers  as  well  as 
bushes,  scrambling  and  straining  and  growing  and 
tangling  in  their  own  strong-willed  fashion,  cloth 
ing  old  stones  with  hearts  of  deep  ruby  and  ame 
thyst,  building  arches  of  glowing  pink  and  tea-yel 
low  against  the  pale  sky,  lifting  shy,  single,  dewy 
heads  in  hushed  corners,  as  if  praying. 

But  he  had  always  liked  the  scarlet  Gloire  de 
Dijon  roses  best. 

They  were  like  her  lips. 

He  looked  up. 

"What  about  Dan?"  he  asked. 


no  WINGS 

"Oh,  Danny—-"     She  smiled. 

"He  is  my  friend,  and  your  husband.  If  he 
knew — " 

"Danny  won't  mind,  dear/'  she  said. 

Her  words  carried  conviction.  Somehow  he 
knew  that  Dan  wouldn't  mind. 

He  sat  down  on  the  hard  couch  that  faced  the 
windows,  drew  her  down  beside  him,  and  put  his 
arm  around  her  shoulder. 

Her  hand,  which  sought  and  found  his,  was  very 
steady  and  very  cool. 

He  did  not  speak ;  neither  did  she.  Twisting  his 
head  sidewise,  he  looked  at  her. 

She  was  in  shadow  from  the  shoulder  downward. 
Only  her  face  was  sharply  defined  in  the  moon 
light.  The  scarlet  lips  seemed  to  swim  to  him 
along  the  slanting,  glistening  rays,  and  he  leaned 
over. 

There  was  hunger  in  his  soul,  in  his  mind,  in  his 
heart,  in  his  body. 

"I  am  going  to  play  the  game !" 

Jhe  words  came  from  very  far,  from  across  the 
bitter  bridge  of  years,  with  the  jarring,  dissonant 
shock  of  a  forgotten  reproach. 

"Dear,  dear  heart !"  he  whispered. 


RENUNCIATION  ill 

She  did  not  resist.  She  did  not  draw  back;  nor 
did  she  say  a  word. 

Only,  just  as  his  lips  were  about  to  touch  hers, 
something — "an  immense,  invisible,  and  very  sad 
presence,"  he  described  it  afterward — seemed  to 
creep  into  the  room,  like  a  winged  thing. 

It  came  soundlessly;  but  he  felt  the  sharp  dis 
placement  of  air.  It  was  as  if  a  huge  bird's 
pinions  had  cut  through  it,  the  left  tip  resting 
on  the  farther  window-sill,  the  right  on  a  chair 
near  the  bed,  on  which  he  had  thrown  his  khaki 
overcoat  and  his  campaign  hat. 

With  it  came  a  sense  of  unutterable  peace  and 
sweetness,  strangely  flavored  with  a  great  pain.  As 
he  leaned  back  without  having  touched  her  lips,  the 
pain  was  mysteriously  transmuted. 

It  became  a  realization,  not  a  vision,  of  color — 
clear,  deep  scarlet  with  a  faint  golden  glow  in  the 
center.  Then  began  to  assume  a  definite  form — • 
that  of  a  gigantic  Gloire  de  Dijon  rose,  which,  as  he 
watched,  slowly  shrank  to  its  natural  proportions 
until  it  rested,  velvety,  scented,  where  he  had 
dropped  the  rose  among  the  books  on  his  writing- 
desk. 

He  rose  to  pick  it  up. 


112  WINGS 

When  he  turned  back  again,  he  saw  that  she  had 
left  the  couch  and  was  standing  on  the  threshold 
of  the  open  door,  a  blotch  of  filmy,  gauzy  white. 

She  was  gone  before  he  could  rush  to  her  side. 
When  he  tried  to  cross  the  threshold,  to  run  after 
her,  he  felt  again  the  wings,  and  the  feeling  brought 
with  it  a  sense  of  ineffable  sweetness  and  peace, 
which  enveloped  his  subconscious  self  in  a  rush  of 
blind  delight. 

It  was  Captain  Donaldson  of  his  regiment  who 
startled  him  out  of  his  sleep  early  the  next  morning. 

"Hurry  up,  old  man!"  he  said.  "The  transport 
sails  this  afternoon  instead  of  to-morrow." 

Roger  Kenyon  tumbled  out  of  bed  and  walked 
over  to  the  desk  where  he  had  dropped  the  rose  the 
night  before. 

"What  are  you  looking  for?"  asked  his  friend. 
"A  cigarette  ?  Here — have  one  of  mine !" 

"No,  no.  I  thought  I  had  left  a  rose  here  last 
night — a  scarlet  Gloire  de  Dijon  rose ;  but — " 

"Gallant  adventure,  eh?"  laughed  Donaldson. 
"Say,  you  must  have  been  drinking!  Why,  this 
isn't  a  rose — it's  a  white  lily !" 

He  picked  up  the  stiff,  sweet-scented  flower. 


RENUNCIATION  113 

"By  the  way,"  asked  Donaldson,  facing  his  friend 
over  coffee  and  toast  and  eggs,  "have  you  heard 
that  Danny  Coolidge's  wife  died  last  night?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Roger  Kenyon. 


KRISHNAVANA, 
DESTROYER  OF  SOULS 

THIS  is  the  story  of  the  pale  shadow  of  a  for 
gotten  love  and  of  the  death  which  therefrom  came 
to  the  soul  of  a  man.  It  is  also  the  story  of  an 
other  man,  a  man  of  Hindustan,  who  took  the  soul 
of  the  first  man  for  the  sake  of  revenge,  and 
squeezed  it  until  it  was  as  dry  as  a  dom-nut  and  as 
bitter  as  a  Dead-Sea  apple. 

But,  if  the  whole  truth  be  told,  it  is  the  story  of 
the  jest  which  Allah  made  of  the  human  heart, 
when  he  breathed  life  into  one  lump  of  clay  and 
gave  to  it  blue  eyes  and  a  white  skin,  and  then,  with 
a  strange  wink  at  the  Fallen  Angel,  breathed  life 
into  another  lump  of  clay  and  gave  to  it  blue-black 
hair  and  a  brown  complexion. 

Krishnavana,  a  young  Hindu  of  highest  Brahman 
caste,  came  to  England  thirty  years  ago,  in  the  good 
old  days  when  the  wrord  sedition  was  unknown  in 

115 


n6  .WINGS 

Bengal  and  when  even  a  nervous,  overworked 
Viceroy  enjoyed  occasional  nights  untroubled  by 
dreams  of  massacre  and  rebellion  and  the  Seven 
Holy  Rivers  red  with  English  blood. 

He  studied  jurisprudence  in  the  legendary  days, 
when  the  dark-skinned  Indian  students  who  flashed 
the  sharp  colors  of  their  turbans  in  the  gray  maze 
of  Lincoln's  Inn  were  apt  to  be  more  royalist  than 
the  king. 

And  Krishnavana  was  of  Young-India.  He  had 
indeed  a  written  pedigree  reaching  back  to  the  time 
when  the  East  was  slowly  emerging  from  its 
chrysalis,  while  the  West  was  still  in  the  throes  of 
primitive  erosion.  But  he  freely  acknowledged  the 
power  of  the  white-skinned  Helots  who  had  become 
masters  overnight,  while  Asia  was  having  one  of  her 
periodical  naps. 

And  so  he  plucked  with  both  hands  at  the  fruit 
of  the  tree  of  Western  wisdom;  he  steeped  himself 
in  English  literature,  history  and  political  ideals ;  he 
deposed  the  many-armed,  lust-scabbed  gods  of  his 
ancestors  and  set  up  in  their  place  brand-new,  neat 
little  idols,  labeled  Burke,  John  Stuart  Mill,  Topi- 
nard,  and  Universal-Brotherhood-Regardless  v  f 
Race,  Faith  and  Color. 


KRISHNA  VAN  A  117 

He  even  became  an  adept  at  cricket,  and  the  very 
day  on  which  he  made  a  "century"  at  the  Oval,  he 
gave  a  tentative  tug  at  the  Sacred  Thread  which 
was  the  secret  emblem  of  his  caste,  and  had  qualmy 
thoughts  of  the  gentle  Christ,  a  house  in  Hemp- 
stead,  a  subscription  to  the  Winning  Post,  admission 
to  the  English  Bar,  a  potential  Q.  C,  and  English- 
born  children,  a  little  dark-skinned  perhaps,  but  with 
the  blue  eyes  of  the  Master-Beast  and  a  thorough 
command  of  Public  School  slang  .  .  .  the  last  par 
ticular  dream  due  to  Miss  Agnes  Couzens,  who 
loved  him  and  whom  he  loved. 

At  least  that's  what  they  both  claimed.  It  may 
have  been  that  it  was  only  the  mystery  of  the  Orient 
in  his  eyes  which  captured  her,  and  the  mystery  of 
the  Occident  in  hers  which  captured  him.  But  they 
were  eager  to  jump  over  the  barrier  which  the 
prejudices  of  a  dozen  centuries  have  erected  be 
tween  East  and  West. 

Unfortunately  the  girl  had  a  brother,  Oughtred 
Couzens,  who  was  cursed  with  a  malignant  form  of 
youth.  He  was  a  very  young  man,  temporarily 
domiciled  at  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  and  his  three 
chief  deities  were  High  Church,  High  Toryism  and 
Old  Port.  He  was  not  a  bad  sort,  but  simply  one 


n8  WINGS 

of  those  young  men  about  whom  you  may  easily 
produce  a  false  impression  if  you  describe  them  at 
all.  His  education  had  been  the  ordinary  education 
of  English  gentlemen :  in  other  words,  he  ate  well, 
and  he  knew  things  that  were  information,  but  he 
did  not  know  things  that  were  things. 

He  was  positive  only  about  the  one  fact,  that  the 
white  race  was  the  race,  that  Asia  had  not  even  a 
sporting  chance,  and  that  men  like  Tamerlane, 
Genghis  Khan,  Akbar,  and  Aurangzeb  were  "rum 
blighters  with  unpronounceable  names." 

And  so  there  was  a  nasty  scene  when  Krish- 
navana  and  Agnes  mentioned  their  miscegenating 
intentions.  Agnes's  love  for  the  Hindu  could  not 
stand  up  against  High  Church  and  Old  Port;  her 
brother  won,  and  the  Brahman  took  his  medicine. 

Only  when  he  was  about  to  turn  the  handle  of 
the  door,  he  said : 

"Where  is  the  religion  of  robbers;  where  is  the 
forbearance  of  a  fool;  where  is  the  affection  of  a 
courtezan;  where  is  the  truth  of  a  Christian?" 

Couzens,  who  was  very  busy  with  his  sister  who 
had  fainted,  made  some  remark  about  crazy  Oriental 
metaphors.  But  perhaps  he  would  have  thought  a 
little  differently  if  he  could  have  heard  what  the 


KRISHNAVANA  119 

Hindu  was  saying,  over  and  over  again,  on  his  way 
back  to  his  lodgings.  It  was  a  queer  exclamation, 
and  it  ran: 

"I  pray  God  that  there  is  a  hell  .  .  .  for  the  sake 
of  mine  enemies,  for  the  peace  of  my  soul." 

Couzens  should  also  have  considered  that  the  wise 
man  guards  against  the  vengeance  of  an  elephant, 
a  cobra  and  a  Hindu.  But  Couzens  was  not  a  wise 
man.  Also,  what  does  a  monkey  know  of  the  taste 
of  ginger? 

It  was  not  really  Couzens's  complexional  preju 
dice  which  infuriated  Krishnavana :  for  if  the 
White  does  not  like  the  Brown  from  an  esthetic 
point  of  view,  the  Brown  replies  in  the  flowery  lan 
guage  of  the  Orient  that  fairer  even  than  the  white 
is  the  leper. 

Krishnavana  was  chiefly  outraged  because  Cou 
zens  had  made  gentle  remarks  about  family, 
mesalliance,  suitable  marriage,  and  similar  fetishes. 

Now  the  Englishman  was  the  descendant  of  a 
knight  who  had  crossed  the  Channel  with  William 
the  Conqueror  in  comparatively  recent  times  .  .  . 
a  matter  of  eight  hundred  years  or  so  ago  .  .  . 
while  Krishnavana's  father  was  a  Tomara  of  Delhi, 
claiming  kinship  with  the  flame,  and  his  mother  a 


120  WINGS 

Rathor  of  Kanauj,  thus  tracing  her  origin  back  to 
an  indiscretion  between  the  sun  and  the  moon. 

And  then  to  be  told  that  Agnes  should  marry  an 
equal  .  .  .  that's  what  hurt. 

It  is  easily  understood  that,  when  Krishnavana 
reached  his  rooms,  he  solemnly  cursed  Burke,  John 
Stuart  Mill,  Topinard,  and  Universal-Brotherhood- 
Regardless-of-Race,  Color  and  Creed,  that  he  made 
a  few  unparliamentary  remarks  about  Christianity, 
England,  and  the  white  race  in  general,  and  prayed 
long  and  fervently  to  Kali,  the  Mother,  the  great 
goddess  of  destruction. 

He  nursed  no  thoughts  of  killing;  for  he  was  of 
an  old  race  and  knew  that  blood  cannot  be  washed 
out  with  blood.  Also  there  is  no  sweetness  in  giv 
ing  death,  since  the  last  moment  of  life  is  but  as  a 
quick,  twisting  lance-thrust,  since  the  memory  of 
pain  is  of  the  body  and  not  of  the  soul,  and  since 
the  man  who  is  killed  is  born  again  in  a  child's  body, 
free  of  wounds  and  blemishes. 

To  kill  well,  you  must  kill  the  soul.  And  the 
soul  of  Oughtred  Couzens  was  the  soul  of  the 
System  which  had  conceived  him. 

Thus  Krishnavana  swore  calm  and  terrible  re 
venge  against  the  System,  cherishing  his  hatred  as 


KRISHNAVANA  121 

Paricarika  cherished  her  love  for  Sakka,  the  power 
ful  god  of  ruddy  color. 

And  so,  when  he  returned  to  India,  he  declared 
war  against  England  and  the  Cross. 

It  was  a  trial  of  patience,  and  knowing  that  to 
practice  the  patience  of  Job  one  must  have  the  age 
of  Noah,  he  nursed  the  health  of  his  body  and 
worked  carefully  and  soundly. 

He  went  amongst  the  villages,  living  on  alms,  and 
reciting  in  return  the  Abhangs  and  Tukaram  and 
Namdev,  and  writing  letters  for  the  illiterate.  But 
in  every  village  he  left  behind  him  a  tiny  seed  of 
poison-wheat  in  the  hearts  of  the  peasants. 

For  he  had  the  strength  of  words  which  drives 
thoughts  into  brains  as  the  wind  drives  a  thin  sheet 
of  flame.  The  sight  of  the  cold,  arrogant  Cross 
made  his  sword-arm  ache,  and  knowing  that  a  man 
cannot  strangle  a  nation  \vith  the  strength  of  his 
fingers,  he  used  the  strength  of  his  steely,  feline 
mind. 

Of  course  he  lied ;  but  he  lied  in  a  masterly  man 
ner,  for  he  lied  like  truth.  And  wherever  he  wan 
dered,  the  snake  of  dissatisfaction  and  rebellion 
lifted  its  flat,  ugly  head  .  .  .  not  striking,  but  pois 
ing  its  body  and  measuring  its  strength  for  the  day 


122  WINGS 

when  one  sudden  strike  would  mean  destruction  to 
the  sahib-log  and  humiliation  to  the  Cross. 

When  he  heard  of  abuse,  he  exaggerated  the  tale 
of  it,  and  when  he  heard  of  good,  clean  reform 
achieved  by  the  English,  he  would  sneer  and  ask  if 
a  crow  can  become  a  swan  by  bathing  in  the  Ganges. 
When  loyal  Hindus  argued  with  him  and  asked  him 
to  treat  the  foreigners  who  ruled  India,  if  not  with 
love,  then  at  least  with  fairness  and  understanding, 
he  replied  that  only  a  fool  pats  a  scorpion  with  the 
hand  of  compassion;  and  when  he  heard  of  young 
Rajputs  enlisting  in  the  regiments  of  the  British,  he 
demanded  why  people  should  give  poison  to  the 
snake. 

It  has  been  said  that  harmful  is  a  crow  among 
birds,  a  rat  in  the  house,  a  monkey  in  the  forest, 
and  a  Brahman  among  men.  And  indeed,  the 
Brahman  Krishnavana  was  harmful  to  the  men  and 
the  house  of  India. 

As  the  sugar-cane  has  a  sweeter  taste  knot  after 
knot  from  the  top,  so  his  influence  grew  with  each 
succeeding  year,  with  each  succeeding  pilgrimage 
through  the  broad  land  of  Hind. 

Then,  after  he  had  acquired  local  reputation,  he 
went  in  for  religious  revival ;  and  if  the  worship  of 


KRISHNAVANA  123 

Kali,  the  sanguinary  goddess  of  destruction,  and  the 
cult  of  Shiva ji-Maharaj,  the  Mahratta  chieftain 
who  in  his  day  had  humbled  the  pride  of  the  alien 
conqueror,  played  a  conspicuous  part  in  this  revival, 
why  .  .  .  there  was  nothing  in  the  Indian  Criminal 
Code  taking  exception  to  the  worship  of  any  par 
ticular  deity. 

Finally,  after  many  years  of  preparation,  he  be 
gan  to  preach  an  aggressive  doctrine.  And  the 
Government  of  India  said  two  or  three  words  to 
the  Secret  Service,  and  several  well-paid  servants 
of  the  Crown  went  on  the  Brahman's  trail. 

But  they  found  themselves  face  to  face  with  an 
enigma ;  for  although  nobody  knew  the  past  history 
of  the  man,  although  there  was  a  look  in  his  eyes 
which  courted  Third  Degree  methods,  he  was  found 
to  be  very  much  like  a  jackf ruit :  full  of  juice  inside, 
but  very  thorny  outside.  Also  there  was  never 
a  letter  found,  there  was  never  a  conspiracy 
hatched  which  pointed  directly  to  him,  there 
was  never  a  plot  discovered  which  compromised 
him. 

And  Krishnavana  mentioned  the  magical  words 
"Habeas  Corpus,"  and  went  on  his  way,  warring 
against  the  Cross. 


124  WINGS 

So,  when  Oughtred  Couzens  came  to  India  many 
years  later,  the  Hindu  was  a  power  in  the  land. 
Oughtred  did  not  recognize  him  when  he  met  him. 
Years  and  a  beard  and  native  dress  are  a  wonderful 
disguise. 

Couzens  had  also  changed.  After  the  scab  of 
youth  had  rubbed  itself  off  in  contact  with  the  harsh 
corners  of  the  world,  he  was  still  a  baby  overtaken 
by  manhood.  The  place  in  his  soul  which  had 
formerly  been  filled  by  Omniscience,  was  now  empty 
except  for  a  residue  of  diffidence,  so  that  he  was 
easily  influenced,  affected  and  swerved. 

He  had  become  a  missionary  after  a  brief  spasm 
of  religion  due  to  the  harangue  of  a  North  Dakota 
Evangelist  who  had  swooped  eagle-wise  on  Britain's 
unprotected  shores,  had  obeyed  the  call  and  had 
gone  forth  to  convert  Asia. 

His  mind  was  incapable  of  concise  and  lucid  state 
ments  ;  the  fruit  of  his  intelligence  could  only  ripen 
in  a  congenial  soil  of  mystery  and  suggestion,  and 
his  soul  could  only  communicate  with  a  strange  soul 
by  a  sort  of  wireless  psychic  telegraphy.  And  so 
he  was  a  fine  subject  for  Indian  mission  work  .  .  . 
but  not  the  way  he  imagined. 

Let  it  finally  be  understood  that  the  Reverend 


KRISHNAVANA  125 

Oughtred  Couzens  was  a  sincere  Christian,  happy  in 
his  faith  and  happy  in  his  faith  alone,  but  that 
he  prided  himself  on  his  broad-mindedness  and 
his  willingness  to  be  convinced,  and  kept  therefore 
in  his  soul  a  little  reserve  corner  inoculated 
with  a  subconscious  doubt  of  the  very  creed  whicH 
meant  his  happiness  and  which  he  had  come  to 
preach. 

It  was  good  for  the  peace  of  India  that  the  two 
met  one  evening  in  a  Punjab  village.  For  when  the 
Hindu  saw  that  the  black-frocked  missionary  was 
Oughtred  Couzens  and  that  the  recognition  was  not 
mutual,  he  decided  to  grant  a  little  breathing-space 
to  the  Raj,  and  to  busy  himself  with  the  particular 
destiny  of  the  one  man  who  had  planted  in  his  heart 
the  seed  of  his  crimson  hatred  for  the  Cross. 

He  took  the  Englishman's  measure,  and  then  he 
began  to  lay  his  plans,  securely  and  smilingly.  He 
knew  that  with  the  help  of  a  little  patience  he  would 
soon  be  able  to  sacrifice  a  writhing,  smoking,  blood 
stained  soul  on  the  altar  of  Kali,  the  Great  Mother. 

Seeing  that  the  weakest  spot  in  his  enemy's  armor 
was  a  dormant  northern  love  for  the  mysteries  of 
Asia,  he  knew  where  to  introduce  the  thin  end  of 
the  wedge. 


126  WINGS 

Couzens  was  charmed  with  the  gentle,  cultured, 
clever  Brahman.  He  had  never  before  met  a  man 
who  could  argue  in  such  a  strangely  convincing 
manner. 

And  indeed,  Krishnavana  gave  of  his  best.  His 
speech  was  a  butterfly  which  rests  for  a  second  on 
a  trembling  leaf;  his  sarcasm  was  a  thousand 
splintering  lance-points,  and  his  knowledge  of  the 
mysterious  roots  which  are  the  creeds  and  the  hearts 
of  men,  was  profound  and  astounding.  His  mental 
strength  was  a  cat  in  climbing,  a  deer  in  running,  a 
snake  in  twisting,  a  hawk  in  pouncing,  and  a  dog 
in  scenting. 

And  so  he  got  beneath  the  Englishman's  skin, 
and  caused  him  to  delve  into  the  depths  of  his  self- 
consciousness  .  .  .  and  to  find  them  empty.  And 
then,  gently  and  slowly,  Krishnavana  began  to  fill 
up  the  emptiness  in  Oughtred's  heart  with  new  wis 
dom,  new  suggestions,  and  the  sweetly  pungent 
odor  of  the  Eastern  mysteries  which  putrify  the 
brains  and  plague-spot  the  hearts  of  Western  men. 

It  is  true  that  Oughtred  fought  hard  for  the  old 
belief  which  was  his  happiness,  his  life,  his  very 
reason  for  existence.  But  he  was  as  soft  clay  in 
a  potter's  hands. 


KRISHNAVANA  127 

And  so  the  wedge  of  the  East  entered  ever  more 
deeply  into  his  heart. 

It  was  Couzens  himself  who  first  asked  the  Brah 
man  about  the  practiced  magic  of  India,  about 
fakirs,  yogis,  gurus,  and  that  Sixth  Sense  of  the 
brown  man  which  the  baffled  white  savant  dismisses 
as  auto-suggestion  and  superstition,  so  as  to  save  his 
face. 

Krishnavana  began  by  showing  him  the  ordinary 
tricks  of  the  veranda- fakir :  the  tricks  of  the  basket, 
the  rope,  the  mango,  and  the  snake-stone. 

Then  one  day,  in  a  village  of  the  Ahmednager 
district,  he  showed  him  a  Sikh  guru  who  came  out 
of  his  tent,  a  drawn  sword  in  his  hand,  and  de 
manded  to  be  allowed  to  cut  off  the  head  of  any  one 
who  claimed  to  be  a  faithful  and  believing  Bakhta. 

And  when  the  Sikh  shouted  "Wdkwvak"  and 
two  or  three  disciples,  quivering  with  excitement 
and  drunk  with  bhang,  had  their  heads  cut  off,  only 
to  be  restored  to  life  a  minute  later,  the  Indian 
Episcopal  Mission  came  near  to  losing  a  promising 
missionary. 

Later  Krishnavana  began  to  initiate  the  English 
man  into  the  mysteries  of  the  left-handed  sects  and 
the  Vaishnavite  cult.  And  at  night,  when  Couzens 


128  WINGS 

returned  to  his  tent  and  opened  the  Bible  with  the 
idea  of  fortifying  his  wavering  soul,  he  would  read 
in  the  black-bound  book  tales  of  other  miracles  .  .  . 
similar  to  the  ones  he  had  seen  in  the  afternoon, 
but  weaker,  cheaper,  more  prosaic. 

Also  there  is  a  difference  between  the  miracles 
of  which  you  read,  and  the  ones  which  you  see  with 
the  eyes  of  your  body,  in  the  clear  light  of  the  sun. 

It  is  not  the  claw  of  the  man-eater,  but  the  sting 
of  the  bramra-bee  which  drives  the  elephant  mad 
and  makes  him  kill  his  mahout.  It  is  not  the  cloud- 
born  hurricane,  but  the  turning  and  dropping  of  a 
small  pebble  which  hurls  the  avalanche  into  the 
valley  on  its  journey  of  ruin  and  destruction. 

And  even  thus  it  was  with  the  soul  of  the 
Reverend  Oughtred  Couzens. 

For  it  was  a  small,  dun-colored  turtle  which 
caused  his  final  spiritual  downfall,  and  which  later 
on  shriveled  his  soul — a  small,  dun-colored  turtle, 
held  in  the  thin,  masterful  hand  of  Krishna vana, 
Hater  of  the  Cross  and  Destroyer  of  Souls. 

For  one  evening,  when  they  were  talking  about 
the  unseen  forces  of  nature,  the  unseen  energy 
which  breeds  what  the  priests  call  miracles,  Krish- 
navana  remarked  in  a  gentle  voice : 


KRISHNAVANA  129 

"An  impossible  thing  should  not  be  spoken ;  when 
it  happens  before  the  eyes  it  is  seen :  a  stone  swims 
in  the  river,  an  ape  sings  a  Kashmiri  love-song." 

Then  he  remarked  casually  that,  thanks  to  fast 
ing,  torturing  his  body  and  submitting  to  the  ordeal 
of  fire,  Shiva  had  given  to  him  a  certain  wisdom 
which  permitted  him  to  cause  living  things  to  change 
as  he  \villed  them  to,  to  increase  in  size,  to  expand, 
and  then  to  shrink  back  to  their  original  shape. 

Couzens's  revolted  Christianity  and  outraged 
European  common  sense  made  one  last,  desperate 
stand.  He  doubted  and  sneered  in  a  weak, 
half-hearted  manner.  And  Krishnavana  repeated 
calmly : 

"When  the  impossible  happens  before  the  eyes  it 
is  seen/'  and  he  proceeded  to  perform  the  miracle. 

He  bought  a  little  land-turtle,  one  span  in  length, 
and  he  told  Couzens  that,  with  the  help  of  certain 
incantations,  he  would  cause  the  animal  to  grow 
every  day  for  three  days  by  a  span ;  but  on  the  fourth 
day  he  would  recite  another  incantation,  and  then 
the  turtle  would  decrease  by  a  span  every  day  for 
three  days  until,  on  the  morning  of  the  seventh  day, 
it  would  have  returned  to  its  original  size. 

Krishnavana  put  the  turtle  into  a  wooden  cage, 


130  WINGS 

he  moved  his  hands  in  a  mysterious  manner,  and 
recited  in  a  hollow  voice : 

"Bhut,  pret,  pisach,  dana, 
Chhee  mantar,  sab  nikal  jana, 
Mane,  mane,  Shivka  khahna  .  .  .  ," 

and  the  miracle  happened  as  foretold  by  the  Brah 
man. 

Every  night  the  turtle  grew,  and  in  the  morning 
it  had  increased  its  length  by  a  span,  for  three  days 
in  succession;  then  it  decreased  for  another  three 
days,  until  at  the  end  of  the  week  it  was  again 
a  little  animal  one  span  in  length. 

And  this  took  place  although  the  cage  was  put 
underneath  the  bed  in  which  Oughtred  Couzens 
slept.  And  there  was  no  explanation  for  it. 

Only  Krishnavana  had  taken  the  precaution  to 
doctor  Couzens's  good-night  cup  of  tea  with  a  dose 
of  hemp,  to  creep  into  the  tent  night  after  night, 
and  to  put  a  different  turtle  into  the  cage. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  Couzens  was  a  nervous 
wreck.  His  old  creed  was  dead,  his  heart  was 
empty,  and  he  was  eager  to  swallow  the  new  belief, 
eager  to  absorb  India  and  in  the  process  become  him 
self  absorbed. 


KRISHNAVANA  131 

And  the  gentle  Brahman  pitied  and  helped 
him. 

He  took  the  empty  soul  of  Oughtred  Couzens  and 
filled  it  with  golden  peace  and  happiness,  he  inocu 
lated  it  with  the  ancient  wisdom  of  India,  and  ever 
he  made  a  point  of  dwelling  on  the  fact  that  it  was 
a  little  turtle  which  had  worked  the  final  conversion, 
which  had  destroyed  the  pagan  belief  in  the  Cross, 
which  had  opened  to  the  Englishman  the  door  of 
Asia's  great,  mysterious  treasure-house.  Thus  had 
the  many  gods  of  India  shown  their  might  in  the 
body  of  a  small  animal. 

Couzens  wondered  and  believed  and  worshiped, 
and  even  after  Krishnavana  had  left  him,  he  con 
tinued  more  and  more  to  become  an  integral  part  of 
the  land  in  which  he  lived,  believing  implicitly  in  the 
lessons  of  the  land,  and  above  all  things  happy  in  his 
new  belief. 

Never  again  could  Christ  come  back  to  his  soul. 

But  what  of  it?  He  had  a  new  faith,  a  true 
faith,  a  faith  which  worked  miracles,  a  faith  in 
which  happiness  and  wisdom  mated. 

And  so  the  Reverend  Oughtred  Couzens  became 
a  Holy  Man  of  Hindustan;  he  built  a  little  temple 
near  a  village,  and  there,  on  an  altar  painted  ocher, 


132  WINGS 

he  worshiped  the  greatness  of  Shiva  in  the  shape 
of  a  turtle. 


Several  years  passed  through  the  land,  and  Krish- 
navana  considered  it  was  time  to  finish  the  revenge, 
and  to  make  the  promised  offer  of  a  living  soul  to 
Kali,  the  Destroying  Goddess. 

And  so,  late  one  evening,  Krishnavana  walked 
into  the  village  where  the  "yogi-sahib,"  as  the 
natives  called  him,  had  his  temple.  He  found  him 
doing  bhajan  in  front  of  the  turtle-image,  and  there 
was  deep  devotion  and  calm  happiness  on  his  face 
in  the  yellow-and-pink  light  of  the  dying  sun. 

When  he  had  finished  his  worship  and  saw  the 
Brahman,  he  rushed  up  to  him,  with  love  in  his  eyes, 
and  took  his  hands  and  called  him  many  names  of 
honor  and  endearment;  the  East  had  gone  into  his 
blood  and  his  speech,  and  so  he  called  him  a  Vast 
Sea  of  Excellent  Qualities;  the  Father  and  Mother 
of  Brahmans,  Cows,  and  Women;  the  Blood  of  his 
Liver,  and  several  other  fine  things. 

Then  he  turned  again  to  the  ocher-colored  altar 
and  bowed  before  the  idol,  and  thanked  Krish 
navana,  saying: 

"I  owe  to  you  my  happiness  and  my  life.     You 


KRISHNAVANA  133 

have  opened  my  eyes  to  the  mysteries  of  this  world 
and  of  the  next.  You  have  given  me  peace  and 
happiness.  And  you  did  it  all  through  the  miracle 
of  the  turtle  .  .  .  blessed  be  the  Holy  Name  of 
Shiva." 

And  Krishnavana  replied  : 

"Yes,  most  dear.  It  was  indeed  the  miracle  of 
the  turtle  which  lifted  the  veil  of  your  old,  foul 
creed  and  which  gave  to  you  the  mantle  of  truth. 
It  was  the  miracle  of  the  turtle  which  filled  the 
yawning  emptiness  of  your  heart.  Without  it  you 
would  be  but  the  shriveled  husk  of  an  empty,  jin 
gling  soul/' 

Here  he  smiled  and  looked  at  Couzens,  and  then 
he  continued  gently : 

"I  shall  now  explain  to  you  how  the  miracle  of 
the  turtle  was  done  ..." 

That  night  Krishnavana  sacrificed  on  the  blood 
stained  altar  of  Kali,  the  Mother,  the  soul  of  Ought- 
red  Couzens,  and  it  was  as  empty  as  a  dried  tinduka 
fruit,  as  dry  as  a  dom-nut,  and  as  bitter  as  a  Dead- 
Sea  apple  .  .  . 


THAT  HAUNTING  THING 

DIANA  MANNING  was  the  very  last  woman  to 
whom  such  a  thing  should  have  happened.  For 
there  was  nothing  about  her  in  the  least  psychic  or 
spiritual. 

She  was  matter  with  a  capital  M,  and  sex  with  a 
capital  S;  $,  rather,  since  hers  was  sex  without  the 
excuse  of  passion — sex  dealing  entirely  and  shame 
lessly  with  bank  accounts,  high  power  racing  cars, 
diamonds,  and  vintage  champagnes. 

She  was  lovely,  and  she  drove  the  hearts  and  the 
purses  of  men  as  a  breath  drives  a  thin  sheet  of 
flame. 

Only  her  finger  nails  gave  the  mark  of  the  east 
side  tenement  (she  was  a  nee  Maggie  Smith)  where 
she  had  been  born  and  bred ;  for  they  were  too  well 
kept,  too  highly  polished,  too  perfectly  manicured. 

But  men  did  not  notice.  They  seldom  looked 
farther  than  her  hair  which  was  like  a  sculptured 
reddish-bronze  helmet,  her  low,  smooth,  ivory  fore- 

135 


136  WINGS 

head,  her  short,  delicately  curved  nose,  her  lips 
which  were  crimson  like  a  fresh  sword  wound,  her 
eyes  which  spoke  of  wondrous  promises — and  lied 
damnably. 

Her  life  had  been  melodramatic — from  the  man's 
angle,  be  it  understood,  and  not  from  her  own  since, 
sublimely  evil,  she  was  beyond  the  moralizing  sense 
of  bad  and,  of  course,  good. 

There  had  been  death  in  the  trail  of  her  shimmer 
ing  gowns,  suicide,  ruin,  the  slime  of  the  divorce 
courts,  disgrace  to  more  than  one. 

But  she  had  never  cared  a  whit. 

She  was  always  petting  her  own  hard  thoughts, 
puncturing  the  lives  of  strangers — who  never  re 
mained  strangers  for  long — with  the  dagger  point 
of  her  personality,  her  greed,  her  evil ;  and  men  kept 
on  fluttering  around  the  red,  burning  candle  which 
was  her  life,  like  silly  willow  flies. 

Then  more  deaths,  Requiems  bought  and  paid 
for,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

Quite  melodramatic.     Incredibly,  garishly  so. 

But — what  will  you? 

It  isn't  always  the  woman  who  pays,  stage  and 
pulpit  to  the  contrary.  And — if  she  does  pay — it's 
usually  the  man  who  endorses  the  note. 


THAT  HAUNTING  THING  137 

When  she  reached  her  home  on  the  upper  west 
side  that  Saturday  night,  she  felt  the  Thing  the  mo 
ment  she  stepped  across  the  threshold.  She  felt  it 
shrouded,  ambiguous,  vague.  But  it  was  there. 
Very  small  at  first.  Hidden  somewhere  in  the 
huge,  square  entrance  hall  and  peeping  in  upon  her 
mind. 

She  wondered  what  it  was,  and  what  it  might  be 
doing  there. 

So  she  called  to  her  maid : 

"Annette !     Annette !" 

She  did  not  call  to  reassure  herself.  For  the 
woman  was  not  afraid.  That  was  it  exactly;  she 
was  not  afraid  from  first  to  last.  If  she  had  been, 
she  would  have  switched  on  the  light. 

But  she  did  not.  She  left  the  flat  in  darkness. 
Deliberately. 

And  that,  again,  was  strange  since  hitherto  she 
had  always  hated  darkness  and  half-light  and  seep 
ing,  graying  shadow;  had  always  wanted  and 
gloried  in  full,  orange  bursts  of  color — big,  cluster 
ing,  massive,  cruel  lights.  She  had  just  that  sort  of 
complexion — pallid,  you  know,  smooth,  with  her 
color  rising  evenly,  dawn-hued  and  tender,  and 
never  in  patches  and  blurry  streaks. 


138  WINGS 

"Annette!  Annette!"  she  called  again,  a  mere 
matter  of  habit;  for  she  relied  on  her  respectable, 
middle-aged  Burgundian  maid  for  anything  and 
everything  that  troubled  her,  from  wrestling  with 
a  cynical,  inquisitive  reporter  to  putting  the  correct 
quantity  of  ammonia  in  her  bromo  seltzers. 

"Yes,  modame"  came  the  maid's  sleepy  voice. 

"Has  anybody  called?" 

"No,  madame" 

"But—" 

She  looked  into  the  corner  of  the  entrance  hall. 
The  Thing  seemed  to  be  crouching  amongst  the  pea 
cock-green  cushions  of  the  ottoman  there. 

"But,  Annette — "  she  commenced  again. 

She  did  not  complete  the  sentence.  Somehow,  it 
did  not  make  any  difference.  The  Thing  was  there. 

And  what  did  it  matter  how  it  had  got  in  ? 

"I  am  coming,  madame"  said  the  maid. 

"Never  mind.  Go  to  sleep.  I'll  undress  myself. 
Good  night,  Annette !" 

"Good  night,  madame!" 

Diana  Manning  shrugged  her  shoulders,  walked 
across  the  entrance  hall,  and  put  her  hand  on  the 
door-knob  of  her  boudoir.  She  said  to  herself  that 


THAT  HAUNTING  THING  139 

she  would  open  the  door  quickly,  slide  in,  and  close 
it  as  quickly. 

For  she  sensed,  rather,  she  knew,  that  the  Thing 
intended  to  follow  her.  It  radiated  energy  and 
vigor  and  determination.  A  certain  kindly  de 
termination  that,  just  for  a  fleeting  moment,  touched 
in  her  the  sense  of  awe. 

But  the  moment  she  opened  the  door,  the  moment 
her  lithe  body  slid  from  the  darkness  of  the  entrance 
hall  into  the  creamy,  silky,  perfumed  darkness  of 
her  boudoir,  she  knew  that  the  Thing  flitted  in  by 
her  side.  She  felt  it  blow  over  her  neck,  her  face, 
her  breast,  like  a  gust  of  wind. 

It  even  touched  her.  It  touched  her  wow-physi 
cally.  That  is  the  only  way  to  put  it. 

Nor  was  she  afraid  then.  On  the  contrary,  she 
felt  rather  sorry  for  the  Thing.  And  that  touched 
in  her  once  more  the  sense  of  awe — naturally,  since 
to  feel  sorry  was  to  her  a  new  sensation,  since  never 
before  in  all  her  life  had  she  felt  sorry  for  anything 
or  anybody. 

The  result  was  that  she  began  to  hate  the  Thing 
— with  cold,  calculating  hatred,  hatred  without  fear. 

She  locked  the  windows  and  doors.  Quite  in 
stinctively  her  hand  brushed  the  tiny  nacre  button 


I4o  WINGS 

which  controlled  the  Venetian  chandelier.  But  sht 
did  not  press  it.  She  left  the  boudoir  in  darkness. 

For  she  was  familiar  with  every  stick  of  furniture 
about  the  place.  She  knew  the  exact  location  of 
the  great,  carved,  crimson-and-gold  Spanish  renais 
sance  day  bed  between  the  window  and  the  fireplace, 
the  big  buhl  table  in  the  center  of  the  room,  the 
smaller  one,  covered  with  a  mass  of  bric-a-brac,  be 
tween  the  two  windows,  the  low  divan  running 
along  the  south  wall  and  overlapping  toward  the 
fireplace,  the  three  chairs  at  odd  angles,  the  four 
little  tabourets,  and,  in  the  northeast  corner,  the 
Chinese  screen,  inlaid  with  ivory  and  lac  and  jade, 
behind  which  she  kept  a  small  liquor  chest.  She 
knew  the  room,  every  inch  of  it,  and  could  move 
about  it,  in  spite  of  the  darkness,  like  a  cat. 

The  Thing,  on  the  other  hand,  whatever  it  was, 
would  find  many  pitfalls  in  the  cluttered-up  boudoir 
if  it  tried  to  get  rambunctious. 

These  latter  were  the  exact  words  with  which 
Diana  Manning  expressed  the  thought  to  herself ;  in 
this  very  moment  of  awe  and  hatred.  Remember 
— she  was  born  and  bred  on  the  east  side.  Of 
course,  since  those  days  of  sooty,  sticky,  grimy  tene 
ment  chrysalis,  she  had  learned  to  broaden  her  a's 


THAT  HAUNTING  THING  141 

and  slur  her  r's  and  to  change  the  slang  of  the 
gutters  for  that  of  the  race  tracks. 

But,  somehow,  she  knew  that  the  Thing  would  be 
more  familiar  with  her  earlier  diction. 

She  lay  down  on  the  couch,  staring  into  the  dark 
ness. 

She  had  decided  to  watch  carefully,  to  pounce 
upon  the  Thing  suddenly  and  to  throttle  it. 

For,  somehow,  the  Thing  had  taken  on  the  sug 
gestion  of  deliberate,  personal  intention  of  an 
aggressive  hostility — something  which  felt  and 
hated,  even  suffered,  yet  which  had  no  bodily 
reality. 

The  realization  of  it  froze  Diana  into  rigidity — 
not  the  rigidity  of  fear,  but  something  far  worse 
than  fear,  partaking  of  Fate — of — she  didn't  know 
what. 

She  only  knew  that  she  must  watch — then  pounce 
and  kill. 

"I  must  have  matters  out  with  it,"  she  thought. 
"One  of  us  two  is  master  in  this  room;  it  or  I. 
And  I  can't  afford  to  wait  all  night.  At  half  past 
eleven  young  'Bunny'  Whipple  is  calling  for  me — " 

Again,  at  the  thought  of  Bunny  Whipple,  she  felt 
that  strange,  hateful  new  sensation  of  awe  blended 


142  WINGS 

with  pity.  The  Thing  was  responsible  for  it — the 
Thing! 

How  she  hated  it!  She  clenched  her  fists  until 
the  knuckles  stretched  white.  What  had  the  Thing 
to  do  with  Bunny  Whipple  and — yes — with  Bunny 
Whipple's  little  blue-eyed,  golden-haired  wife — the 
bride  who — 

Diana  cut  off  the  thought  in  mid-air  and  tossed 
it  aside  as  if  it  were  a  soiled  glove. 

She  watched  more  carefully  than  ever,  her  breath 
coming  in  short  staccato  bursts,  her  body  tense  and 
strained,  her  mind  rigid.  She  tried  to  close  her 
mind ;  she  did  not  want  the  Thing  to  peep  in  upon 
it. 

For  right  then  she  knew — she  did  not  feel  nor 
guess — she  knew  that  the  Thing  had  the  trick  of 
expanding  and  decreasing  at  will. 

It  made  her  angry.  She  did  not  consider  it 
fair. 

For  it  gave  to  the  Thing  the  advantage  of  sud 
denly  shrinking  to  the  size  of  a  pin  point  and  hiding 
in  a  knot  of  the  Tabriz  rug  which  covered  the  floor 
and,  immediately  afterwards,  of  bloating  into  mon 
strous  size,  like  a  balloon,  and  floating  toward  the 
stuccoed  ceiling  like  an  immense  soap  bubble— 


THAT  HAUNTING  THING  143 

hanging  there — looking  down  with  that  strange, 
hateful,  rather  kindly  determination. 

"Bunny  Whipple's  wife — "  she  thought  again. 
"I  saw  her  yesterday — and  the  silly  little  fool 
recognized  me.  She  would  have  spoken  to  me  had 
I  given  her  the  chance.  Spoken  to  me  as  she  wrote 
me — asking  me  to  give  her  back  her  husband's  love 
—love— " 

Her  mind  formed  the  word,  caressed  it  as  if  it 
were  something  futile  and  soft  and  na'ive  and  laugh 
able,  like  a  ball  of  cotton  or  a  tiny  kitten — 

The  next  moment,  she  whipped  it  aside  with  all 
her  hard  will.  She  sat  up  straight. 

For,  at  the  forming  of  the  word,  the  Thing  which 
a  second  earlier  had  been  a  pin-point  sitting  on  the 
gilded  edge  of  a  Sevres  vase,  bloated  and  stretched 
gigantically,  leaped  up,  appeared  to  float,  leaped 
again  toward  the  ceiling  as  if  trying  to  jerk  it  away 
from  the  cross  beams. 

Then,  just  as  suddenly,  it  dropped  on  the  floor. 
It  lay  there,  roaring  with  laughter. 

Diana  did  not  hear  the  laughter.  She  felt  it. 
She  knew  it. 

Too,  she  knew  exactly  where  it  was ;  between  the 
large  buhl  table  and  the  divan.  She'd  get  it  and 


144  WINGS 

choke  it  while  it  lay  there  helpless  with  merriment. 

She  jumped  from  her  couch,  her  fingers  spread 
like  a  cat's  claws. 

"I'll  get  you — you — you  Thing!"  she  said  the 
words  out  loud.  "I'll  get  you !  I'll  get  you !" 

Her  voice  rose  in  a  shrill,  tearing  shriek — step 
by  step,  she  approached  the  divan. 

"I'll  get  you — get  you — get  you — " 

"Madame!     Madame!     Did  you  call  me?" 

It  was  the  maid's  voice  coming  from  the  hall. 

"No — no !  Go  to  bed,  Annette !  Go  to  bed — do 
you  hear  me?"  as  the  maid  rattled  the  door-knob. 
"I  don't  want  to  be  disturbed — " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  madame"  Annette  coughed 
discreetly.  "I  didn't  know  that  anybody — thought 
you  had  come  home  alone — I — " 

"Go  to  bed !  At  once !"  Diana  shrieked ;  then,  the 
maid's  footsteps  pattering  away,  she  fell  on  the 
couch,  panting. 

She  was  in  a  towering  rage.  She  felt  sure  that 
if  it  had  not  been  for  the  maid  she  could  have 
pounced  upon  the  Thing  while  it  lay  there  on  the 
floor,  roaring  with  laughter. 

Now  the  laughter  had  died  out  and  the  Thing  had 
got  away.  It  had  shrunk  into  a  tiny  butterfly — 


THAT  HAUNTING  THING  145 

that's  how  Diana  felt  it — which  was  beating  its 
wings  against  the  brass  rod  of  the  portieres.  But 
it  was  fluttering  rather  helplessly,  blindly,  as  if  it 
had  lost  some  of  its  energy  and  vigor;  and  again 
Diana  felt  sorry  and  correspondingly  her  hatred 
grew.  And  her  determination. 

"I'll  get  you— you— " 

She  waited  until  her  breath  came  more  evenly, 
rose,  walked  noiselessly  to  the  portieres  and  rustled 
them. 

The  Thing  was  startled.  Diana  could  feel  the 
tiny  wings  flutter  and  beat.  She  could  hear  its 
terrible,  straining  effort  to  bloat  into  a  huge  soap- 
bubble  and,  not  succeeding,  to  shrink  into  a  pin 
point. 

But  something  was  making  it  impossible,  and 
Diana  knew  what  it  was. 

It  was  the*  fact  that,  in  one  of  the  hidden  back 
cells  of  her  brain,  the  thought  of  Bunny  Whipple's 
silly  little  fool  of  a  golden-haired  wife  had  taken 
firm  root,  refused  to  budge. 

So  Diana  kept  the  thought.  She  nursed  it.  It 
seemed  like  a  bait,  and  she  thrust  it  forward. 

She  spoke  out  loud,  her  face  raised  up  to  the 
portieres : 


146  WINGS 

"Silly  little  fool  of  a  golden-haired  bride!"  and 
she  added,  out  of  subconscious  volition :  "Silly 
Bunny!" 

She  had  spoken  the  last  words  caressingly,  as  a 
naughty  boy  speaks  to  a  cat  before  he  catches  her 
and  tweaks  her  tail,  and  the  Thing  was  about  to 
fall  into  the  trap.  For  a  second  it  hovered  on  the 
brass  rod,  seemed  to  wait,  expectant,  undecided. 

Then  it  came  down  a  few  inches.  It  fluttered 
within  reach  of  Diana's  outstretched  hand. 

But  when  she  closed  her  hand  suddenly,  viciously, 
it  winged  away  again,  breathless,  frightened,  but 
unharmed.  It  flew  into  the  center  of  the  room.  It 
made  a  renewed  terrible  effort  to  bloat  into  a 
Balloon. 

And  this  time  it  succeeded — partly. 

She  did  not  feel  exactly  what  shape  it  had  as 
sumed,  but  it  was  something  amorphous,  flabby, 
covered  all  over  with  soft  bumps  which  were  very 
beastly. 

She  followed,  more  determined  than  ever,  and  the 
Thing  tried  to  leap  into  the  air. 

It  had  nearly  succeeded  when  Diana,  with  quick 
presence  of  mind,  thought  again  of  Bunny  Whipple 
and  Bunny  Whipple's  silly,  golden-haired  wife. 


THAT  HAUNTING  THING  147 

"She  asks  me  to  give  her  back  Bunny's  love — his 
love!  God!  Does  the  silly  little  fool  think  that 
Bunny  loves  me?  Does  she  call  that — love?" 

This  time  it  was  Diana  who  burst  into  a  roar  of 
laughter,  and  the  Thing  stood  still  and  listened,  its 
head  cocked  on  one  side,  stupid,  ridiculous,  foolish; 
and  when  Diana  neared  it,  when  it  tried  to  fly,  to 
hover,  to  swing  in  mid  air,  all  it  succeeded  in  doing 
was  to  move  swiftly  about  the  room,  just  an  inch  or 
two  away  from  the  \voman's  groping  fingers. 

Diana  laughed  again,  for  she  knew  that  the 
Thing  had  lost  its  faculty  of  flying,  that  it  would 
not  be  able  to  escape  her  for  long  with  the  chances 
all  in  her  favor. 

For  the  boudoir  was  cluttered  with  furniture, 
and  she  knew  the  location  of  every  piece,  while  the 
Thing  would  lose  itself,  stumble,  fall,  and  then — 

"Wait !  You  just  wait !"  she  whispered ;  and  the 
Thing  backing  away  from  the  center  of  the  room 
toward  the  carved  Chinese  screen,  she  followed  step 
by  step,  her  fingers  groping,  clawing,  the  lust  of  the 
hunter  in  her  eyes,  in  her  heart. 

"I'll  throttle  you—" 

Then  she  reconsidered.  To  throttle  so  as  to  kill, 
she  would  have  to  measure  her  own  strength  exactly 


148  WINGS 

against  the  Thing's  strength  of  resistance.  And 
that  would  be  hard. 

For  the  Thing  was  non-physical.  It  had  no 
body. 

But  it  was  sure  to  have  a  heart.  She  would  stab 
that  heart. 

So  she  picked  from  the  buhl  table  the  jeweled 
Circassian  dagger  which  she  had  admired  the  day 
before  in  a  little  shop  on  Lexington  Avenue  and 
which  Bunny  had  given  to  her — with  some  very 
foolish  remark,  quite  typical  of  him — she  remem 
bered.  "I  wish  to  God  you'd  kill  yourself  with  it ! 
Get  out  of  my  life — leave  me  in  peace— me  and 
Lottie—" 

Lottie  was  the  silly,  golden-haired  v/ife. 

But  when,  dagger  in  hand,  Diana  took  up  the 
chase  again,  she  was  disappointed.  For  the  Thing 
seemed  as  familiar  with  the  room  as  she  herself. 
It  avoided  sliding  rugs,  sharp-cornered  buhl  tables, 
tabourets  and  chairs  placed  at  odd  angles.  It 
never  as  much  as  grazed  a  single  one  of  the  many 
brittle  bits  of  bric-a-brac. 

Once  it  chuckled  as  if  faintly  amused  at  some 
thing. 

But  Diana  did  not  give  up  heart.     She  had  made 


THAT  HAUNTING  THING  149 

up  her  mind,  and  she  was  a  hard  woman — her  soul 
a  blending  of  diamond  and  fire-kissed  steel. 

"I'll  get  you!"  and  she  thought  of  a  new,  better 
way.  She  would  corner  the  Thing. 

Again  she  advanced,  slowly,  cautiously,  step  by 
step,  driving  the  Thing  before  her  across  the  width 
of  the  room,  always  keeping  uppermost  in  her  mind 
the  thought  of  Bunny  Whipple  and  his  silly  fool  of 
a  golden-haired  wife — the  thought  which  was 
paralyzing  the  Thing's  faculty  of  bloating  and 
shrinking  and  flying. 

The  end  came  very  suddenly. 

Watching  her  chance,  she  had  the  Thing  cornered, 
straight  up  against  the  inlaid  Chinese  screen. 

It  tried  to  shrink — to  bloat — to  fly — to  get  away. 

But  Diana  had  timed  her  action  to  the  click  of 
a  second.  She  brought  the  dagger  down — with  all 
her  strength — and  the  Thing  crumpled,  it  gave,  it 
was  not. 

There  was  just  a  sharp  pain,  a  crimson  smear, 
and  a  very  soft  voice  from  a  far,  starry,  velvety 
distance. 

"You  have  killed  me,  Diana!" 

"Killed— whom  ?     Who  are  you  ?" 

"The  evil  in  your  soul,  Diana !     The  evil — "  theu 


150  WINGS 

something  which  had  been  congealed  seemed  to  turn 
fluid  and  alive  and  golden;  something  rose  into  a 
state  that  was  too  calm  to  be  ecstasy. 

The  next  morning,  Bunny  Whipple's  silly,  blue- 
eyed,  golden-haired  wife  was  sitting  across  from 
her  husband  at  breakfast. 

He  was  white  and  haggard  and  shaky.  She 
looked  at  him,  pity  in  her  eyes. 

"Have  you  seen  the  morning  paper,  Bunny  ?"  she 
asked. 

"No!  Don't  want  to.  More  scandal  about  me, 
I  guess — "  he  bit  the  words  off  savagely. 

"Only — that — that  woman — "  she  faltered. 

"Diana  Manning!  All  right!  What  about 
her?" 

"She  was  found  dead  last  night — by  her  maid. 
She  had  stabbed  herself  through  the  heart  with  a 
Circassian  dagger.  The — the  papers  say  that  a 
smile  was  on  her  face — a  happy,  sweet  smile — as 
if—" 

She  picked  up  the  Star  and  read  the  reporter's 
lyric  outburst  out  loud : 

"As  if  death  had  brought  her  happiness  and 
salvation  and  a  deep,  calm,  glorious  fulfillment." 


THAT  HAUNTING  THING  151 

Bunny  Whipple  did  not  reply.  He  stared  into 
his  coffee  cup. 

Very  suddenly  he  looked  up.  His  wife  had  risen 
and  walked  around  the  table  toward  him. 

She  put  her  slim,  white  hands  on  his  shoulders. 

There  were  tears  in  her  eyes — tears  and  a  trem 
bling  question. 

He  drew  her  to  him,  and  kissed  her. 


THE  MAN  WHO  LOST  CASTE 

IN  those  days,  when  the  first  wave  of  Hindu  emi 
gration  struck  the  Pacific  Littoral,  I  had  a  little 
Oriental  shop  down  Yeslerway,  in  the  city  of 
Seattle.  My  tiny  show-window  was  crammed  with 
the  mellow,  scented  things  of  the  turbaned  places. 
There  were  rugs  and  laces  and  shawls  from  many 
lands,  carved  ivories  and  soapstones,  white  jade  and 
green  jade ;  and  finally  there  were  a  few  Hindu  gods 
and  many  and  various  daggers,  bolos  and  barongs 
and  kurkrees  and  khyberees. 

Then  came  the  day  when  he  walked  into  my  shop, 
all  the  six  foot  four  of  him,  straight  as  a  lance  at 
rest,  bearded,  hook-nosed,  pink-turbaned,  patient- 
eyed,  and  silken-voiced.  He  handled  with  reverence 
the  little  peacock  god  and  the  cruel,  scissor-like 
Scinde  blade  which  lay  on  the  counter.  And  so  I 
knew  that  he  was  a  Mahratta  and  a  high-caste. 

He  told  me  that  he  was  the  servant  of  a  retired 
Anglo-Indian  officer  who  lived  in  the  Queen  Anne's 

153 


154  WINGS 

Addition,  and  Moslim  though  I  am  and  Mahratta 
though  he  was,  we  became  friends,  even  if  we 
could  not  break  bread  together. 

Then  one  evening,  when  spring  was  white  and 
pink,  and  the  night  air  heavy  with  the  musk  of  re 
membrance  and  homesickness,  he  told  me  his  story : 

"I  am  Dajee,  the  Mahratta.  I  am  a  high-caste. 
The  peacock  is  sacred  to  my  clan.  We  cannot  kill 
that  bird,  and'we  worship  its  feathers. 

"To-day  I  serve  a  beef-eating  Englishman,  a 
cannibal  of  the  holy  cow,  though  the  coral  necklace 
that  I  wear  was  handed  down  in  our  family  from 
the  time  of  my  great-great-great-grandfather's 
great-great-great-grand  father. 

"But  who  can  avoid  what  is  written  by  Brahma 
on  the  forehead?  Rajahs  and  ryots  are  alike  sub 
ject  to  the  sports  of  Fate. 

"To-day  I  am  in  a  cold  land  sodden  with  rain, 
and  once  I  lived  in  a  golden  land  pregnant  with  the 
beam  of  the  warm  sun.  To-day  I  softly  obey  the 
voice  of  the  foreigner,  though  my  ancestors  were 
warriors  who  gave  the  sword  when  it  was  red  and  a 
land  hissing  with  blood. 

"We  are  all  the  brittle  toys  of  Destiny,  even  I, 
who  am  Dajee,  a  Mahratta,  a  high-caste. 


THE  MAN  WHO  LOST  CASTE       155 

"My  father  died  when  I  was  little,  and  there  were 
a  number  of  female  relatives  to  feed.  Then  I 
borrowed  forty-five  rupees  for  my  marriage.  I 
married  the  daughter  of  Ranjee  when  she  was  tall 
enough  to  reach  my  waist.  But  my  wife  fell  ill 
when  she  was  still  but  a  child.  And  she  sickened 
and  died.  Then  my  bullock  died,  and  there  was  the 
interest  on  the  loan  to  be  paid;  and  so  the  Sowcar 
from  whom  I  had  borrowed  the  money  took  my 
ancestral  farm  in  the  Moffusil. 

"Thus  was  I  alone. 

"What  should  a  man  do? 

"I  sat  down  and  awaited  the  words  of  Fate. 
And  Fate  spoke. 

"The  day  after  the  Sowcar  took  the  farm,  some 
pilgrims  with  crimson  banners  passed  through  the 
village,  and  they  visited  the  little  shrine  of  Vithal, 
and  in  the  evening  they  did  bhajan  before  the 
images. 

"There  were  clouds  in  the  sky,  and  the  sunset  was 
red.  And  the  redness  fell  on  the  whirling  limbs 
and  on  the  banners  and  on  the  feet  of  the  gods  and 
goddesses,  and  everything  seemed  bathed  in  a  vast 
sea  of  blood.  And  the  red  lights  and  the  wild 
sound  of  the  bhajan  turned  my  head.  Madness 


156  WINGS 

tugged  at  my  heart-strings.  So  I  leapt  in  and  I 
joined  in  the  dance. 

"They  were  Mahars,  low-castes,  filth  unspeakable 
and  reeking.  I  was  Dajee,  the  Mahratta,  a  high- 
caste. 

"Thus  I  lost  my  caste. 

"I  had  lost  my  farm,  my  bullock,  and  my  wife. 
I  was  a  poor  man.  And  how  can  a  poor  man  feast 
the  many  priests  ?  How  can  a  poor  man  regain  his 
caste  ? 

"I  followed  my  Karma.  I  bought  a  piece  of  red 
cloth  which  I  tied  to  a  stick.  I  begged  for  food, 
and  went  with  the  pilgrims  on  the  road  to 
Phandarpur. 

"I  shall  never  forget  the  first  festival — the  stifling 
press  of  worshipers  in  the  temple,  the  streams  com 
ing  up  and  down  the  ghats,  the  frenzy  of  the  bhajan 
at  night,  and  the  image  of  the  languid  full  moon  in 
the  water  of  the  river. 

"The  pilgrims  returned  to  their  own  country. 
But  what  was  I  to  do?  Could  I  return  to  the 
Moffusil  ? — I  had  lost  my  caste. 

"So  I  took  stick  and  bowl  and  lived  on  alms.  I 
went  to  various  Vaishnavite  shrines.  True  I  was 
to  the  worship.  Assiduously  I  repeated  the  name 


THE  MAN  WHO  LOST  CASTE       157 

of  Hari,  and  all  my  thoughts  were  of  release  from 
worldly  ambition,  and  of  devotion  to  him. 

"I  wandered  from  the  snows  of  Dhaulagiri  to  the 
lingams  of  Ceylon,  and  then  I  met  the  ascetic  from 
Kashmere,  the  worshiper  of  the  Lord  Shiva,  and  I 
became  his  pupil  and  did  bodily  penance. 

"Gradually  I  subdued  my  body.  I  submitted  to 
the  supreme  ordeal  of  fire.  I  \valked  barefoot 
through  the  white-hot  charcoal,  I  uncovered  my 
head  to  the  burning  fire-bath,  and  I  felt  not  the  pain 
of  the  body. 

"Only  my  tortured  soul  writhed  with  the  anguish 
of  my  Fate.  For  I  was  alone  and  an  outcast. 

"I  sat  in  the  midday  heat  during  the  month  of 
pilgrimages,  with  seven  fires  around  me  and  the  sun 
scorching  my  shaven  head,  and  I  turned  my  eyes 
toward  myself  and  meditated  on  the  mysterious  way 
which  is  Life. 

"Then  I  met  the  holy  man  from  Guzerat  who  told 
me  that  to  clear  my  vision  and  fatten  the  glebe  of 
my  understanding,  I  must  do  penance  with  the  head 
hanging  downward^  JL^femember  well  when  I 
started  this  penance. 

"It  was  in  the  Grishna  season,  and  behind  the 
western  mountains  the  sun  was  setting,  shrouded 


158  WINGS 

with  layers  of  gloomy  clouds  tinged  with  red  like 
fresh-spilt  blood.  One  last  look  I  took  at  mountain 
and  plain,  and  never  had  the  mountains  seemed  so 
high,  never  the  plains  so  broad.  Then  I  hang  with 
my  head  downward  and  shut  my  eyes. 

"When  I  opened  them,  when  I  saw  it  all  upside 
down,  the  sight  was  marvelous  beyond  description, 
The  blue  hills  had  lost  their  struggling  height  and 
were  a  deep,  mysterious,  swallowing  void.  Against 
them  the  sky  stood  out,  bold,  sharp,  intense,  like  a 
range  of  hills  of  translucent  sardonyx  and  aqua 
marine,  immeasurably  distant;  and  the  fringe  of 
clouds  at  the  base  of  the  sky  seemed  a  lake  of  molten 
amber  with  billows  of  tossing,  sacrificial  fire. 

"After  the  penace  I  went  on  pilgrimage  to  the 
Seven  Holy  rivers  of  Hindustan,  and  I  sat  in  cells 
in  lonely  shrines,  gazing  myself  into  stupefaction. 
And  so,  when  I  thought  that  I  had  freed  my  soul  of 
fleshly  desires,  I  joined  holy  mendicants  of  many 
degrees. 

"But  I  found  the  holy  men  to  be  quarrelsome  and 
jealous,  greedy  and  lustful,  kissing  to-day  the  feet 
of  the  many-armed  gods  and  to-morrow  killing  men 
and  poisoning  cattle :  each  following  his  own  Fate, 
toward  the  bad  or  toward  the  good. 


THE  MAN  WHO  LOST  CASTE       159 

"So  what  was  the  use  of  fighting  against  Fate  ? 

"Then  I  met  the  Christian  teacher,  and  he  ex 
plained  to  me  the  system  of  his  religion.  I  began 
to  wonder  if  his  was  the  right  way,  and  so  I  got 
work  on  the  railway  so  as  to  be  able  to  watch  the 
Christians.  But  I  found  them  as  gross  and  as 
carnal  as  all  the  others,  and  I  saw  no  worship  at  all, 
nor  heard  any  man  repeat  the  name  of  God  except 
to  abuse. 

"Also  I  spoke  to  the  Christian  teacher  of  having 
lost  my  caste.  But  he  was  angry  and  said  that  caste 
does  not  exist.  Decidedly,  he  was  a  gray-minded 
son  of  an  owl,  of  no  understanding.  And  I  left 
him. 

"Then  I  became  very  despondent  and  hated  Life. 
And  I  took  to  ganja  smoking.  And  then,  since  I 
had  lost  my  god,  my  wife,  my  farm,  my  bullock, 
and  my  caste,  I  stole. 

"Several  times  I  was  convicted,  and  finally,  two 
years  ago,  I  got  a  long  sentence  in  jail." 

The  Mahratta  stopped  in  the  recital  of  his  tale 
and  looked  straight  into  the  distance.  So  I  asked 
him: 

"A  long  sentence  in  jail?  But  you  are  here,  in 
America." 


160  WINGS 

Calmly  he  lit  a  fresh  cigarette  and  replied : 

"Why,  yes.     I  am  here.     I  followed  my  Fate. 

"One  day  I  remembered  the  strength  of  my 
sword-arm,  and  I  strangled  the  jailer,  and  I  took 
ship,  and  so  I  am  here. 

"What  was  I  to  do?  In  killing  the  jailer  I  but 
followed  my  Karma,  and  in  gurgling  out  his  last 
breath  under  the  clutch  of  my  hands,  he  but  fol 
lowed  his.  There  is  neither  right  nor  wrong.  All 
is  Karma. 

"I  am  Dajee,  the  Mahratta,  and  a  high-caste. 
The  peacock  is  sacred  to  my  clan.  But  I  work  for 
the  beef-eating  foreigner  in  this  cold  land. 

"In  this  incarnation  Fate  stole  my  caste,  so  what 
is  it  to  me  where  and  how  I  live  ? 

"When  I  walk  through  the  streets  in  the  evening 
I  think  of  the  many  ways  of  release  which  I  tried 
and  found  to  be  vain,  and  of  what  will  be  the  end, 
and  what  will  be  my  next  life. 

"It  comforts  me  to  think  that  as  in  this  life  I  do 
not  remember  the  incidents  of  my  last,  so  in  the 
next  one  this  life  will  be  forgotten. 

"For  memory  is  of  the  body,  and  not  of  the 
soul. 

"Once  I  spoke  to  the  Englishman  for  whom  I 


THE  MAN  WHO  LOST  CASTE       161 

work,  but  he  wishes  to  live  again  as  the  same  being 
after  death.  For  he  is  a  Christian. 

"But  why? 

"To  remember  that  I  am  myself  for  one  lifetime 
has  oppressed  me.  To  be  the  same  being  in  another 
life  would  be  w6rse~thaaj;he  torments  of  the  ruru 
worm. 

"To  remember  oneself  forever  and  ever,  with  no 
chance  of  forgetting,  is  a  thought  too  horrible  for 
the  mind  to  endure. 

"So  what  should  I  do? 

"I  follow  the  way  of  my  Karma.  Who  can  avoid 
what  is  written  on  the  forehead?" 


SILENCE 

RAOUL  D'ARGENTAYE,  Marquis  de  Saint-Huber- 
tin,  had  the  peculiar  trick  of  spreading  a  sort  of 
hush  about  him  wherever  he  went;  not  a  hush  of 
dread,  but  rather  one  of  uneasy  expectancy  as  if  he 
were  waiting  for  the  answer  to  a  silent  question — 
though  at  times  he  put  it  into  thin,  trembling  words 
which  nobody  understood  except  Father  Gustave, 
the  old  priest  who  officiated  at  the  Church  of  Saint- 
Jacques-de-Grace. 

The  marquis  seemed  to  look  for  the  answer  to 
his  question  in  the  face  of  every  man  whom  he 
encountered  in  his  daily  wanderings  through  the 
narrow,  packed  streets  which  converge  on  the 
Place  de  Thionville. 

There,  in  the  busiest  section  of  Paris,  he  had  lived 
for  many  years,  ever  since  his  return  from  Corsica, 
in  one  of  those  huge  apartment  barracks  of  red 
brick  and  white  stucco,  the  front  pierced  with  count 
less  and  unevenly  spaced  windows  enlivened  by  bird- 

163 


1 64  .WINGS 

cages,  and  flowers  in  pots,  and  rags  hung  out  to 
dry,  and — if  the  weather  was  warm — by  the  frowzy 
heads  of  housewives  greeting  each  other  in  the  rau 
cous  jargon  of  the  neighborhood  —  "Bonjour,  la 
p'tite  mere! — et  la  sante,  go,  colic  tou jours?" — and 
then  some  Rabelaisian  jest  as  one  of  the  artisans 
looked  up  from  his  basement  shop  and  joined  in 
the  conversation  of  the  women. 

At  first  the  people  of  the  quartier — the  clock- 
makers  and  printers  and  metal-workers  whose  an 
cestors  had  plied  their  trade  here  since  long  before 
the  Revolution — had  wondered  when  the  marquis 
had  come  among  them,  with  his  immaculate  clothes, 
his  silk  hat  with  the  eight  high-lights,  and  his  grave, 
old-fashioned  manners.  Some  had  asked  him  why 
he  lived  here,  near  the  Place  de  Thionville,  in  pref 
erence  to  his  palace  of  the  Rue  de  Crenelle — to 
receive  the  never-varying  reply : 

"There  are  Corsicans  here.  And  perhaps  one  of 
them  will  tell  me  some  day!" 

But  years  had  passed,  and  now  they  were  famil 
iar  with  the  strange  habits  of  the  marquis.  They 
knew  that  every  time  he  met  one  of  those  young, 
dark-haired,  hawk- faced  Corsicans,  who  came  to  the 


SILENCE  165 

quartier  as  apprentices  to  some  ancient  craft,  he 
,  would  stop  him  with  the  flat,  trembling  question, 
"Monsieur,  did  you  by  any  chance  recognize  the — 
ah — the  gentleman  who  called  on  my  wife  this  aft 
ernoon?"  and  then  he  would  walk  down  the  street 
without  waiting  for  a  reply,  while  the  children  of 
the  neighborhood,  with  the  instinctive  cruelty  of  the 
young,  would  run  after  him  with  loud  shouts  of — 
"Monsieur  le  marquis!  Monsieur  le  marquis!  You 
haven't  got  a  wife!" — and  gales  of  laughter  which 
he  did  not  seem  to  hear. 

,The  story?  Oh,  yes — the  reason  for  the  dumb 
quest  in  the  marquis's  faded  old  eyes,  for  the  hush 
which  surrounded  him,  for  the  strange  question 
with  which  he  approached  the  hawk-faced  young 
Corsicans — the  tale  of  twenty  years  before  which 
was  known  only  to  Father  Gustave,  the  old  priest 
who  officiated  at  the  Church  of  Saint-Jacques-de- 
Grace. 

In  those  days  the  marquis  was  young  and  hand 
some,  the  possessor  of  a  princely  fortune,  and  hap 
pily  married  to  the  young  Countess  Laetitia  Pozzo- 
Paoli,  the  last  descendant  of  an  ancient  impover- 


1 66  WINGS 

ished  Corsican  house  that  had  flourished  and  fallen 
in  a  gaunt  castle  which  frowned  above  a  little  vil 
lage  on  the  west  coast  of  the  island. 

She  was  superb  and  placid  like  a  Raphael  with 
a  touch  of  Titian,  and  beneath  the  curly  mist  of 
her  golden  hair — the  heritage,  doubtless,  of  some 
Viking  ancestor — black  eyes  looked  out  with  the 
sort  of  feminine  pathos  which  meant  nothing  in 
particular — except  to  M.  de  Saint-Hubertin,  who 
adored  her.  She  was  not  supremely  brilliant,  nor 
haci  she  the  sound  education  which  a  Frenchwoman 
of  her  rank  would  have  had,  but  she  was  filled  with 
something  that  took  the  place  of  both;  something 
best  described  as  a  deep,  luminous  vivacity  and  a 
quick,  trenchant  wit  which  was  slightly  cruel  at 
times. 

After  their  marriage,  when  her  husband  wanted 
to  take  her  away  from  the  little  Corsican  village, 
to  Paris,  to  the  palace  in  the  Rue  de  Crenelle,  so 
that  she  should  take  the  place  in  society  due  her  by 
his  name  and  escutcheon,  she  laughed  with  a  flash 
of  small,  white,  even  teeth. 

She  replied  that  Corsica  was  her  own  land,  the 
land  which  she  loved  and  understood — the  land 
which  loved  and  understood  her. 


SILENCE  1 6; 

"Paris?"  she  added,  in  that  dramatic  southern 
manner  of  hers,  "society? — no,  no,  my  friend,  I 
want  nothing  of  it !  Paris  society  is  only  the  home 
of  petty  and  despicable  people,  of  petty  and  des 
picable  emotions — a  thing  which  swings  half-way 
between  a  modiste's  shop  and  the  gallows!" 

"And  what  is  Corsica?"  laughed  her  husband. 

"Don't  you  feel  it?"  she  countered — and  then, 
"Why— it  is  this,  this,  this!" 

And  she  pointed  from  the  balcony  of  the  crum 
bling  old  castle  out  to  the  sea,  opaque  and  green 
and  solid  like  a  metal  plaque;  at  the  patches  of 
tufted  beach  grass  that  turned  from  gold  to  silver 
as  the  hot  south  wind  twisted  them  over,  at  the 
sky  which  was  of  such  an  intense  blue  that  at  times 
it  quivered  with  black  and  purple  lights. 

Again,  at  night,  when  she  and  the  marquis  strolled 
through  the  tortuous,  hilly  streets  of  the  village,  she 
asked  him  to  feel  Corsica — the  heart  of  it — and  she 
pointed  at  the  bold-eyed  young  girls,  brown  like 
Florentine  bronzes,  who  were  walking  arm  in  arm, 
by  threes  and  fours,  with  rhythmic,  feline  move 
ments  of  their  supple  hips;  at  the  keen-faced  men 
with  their  staring  eyes  and  the  pose  of  head  and 
body  which  spoke  of  love  and  hatred  and  pride — 


1 68  WINGS 

which  spoke,  too,  of  the  racial  instinct  which  was 
theirs. 

"I  love  it,"  she  murmured,  breathing  through  her 
teeth  in  a  strangely  sensuous  manner,  and  the  mar 
quis  felt  a  tearing  pang  of  jealousy — of  the  flesh, 
not  of  the  mind — as  if  this  harsh,  hot  land  of  Cor 
sica  were  a  man,  with  a  man's  feelings. 

For  love  of  his  wife  he  remained.  For  love  of 
her  he  tried  to  identify  himself  with  the  land. 

He  took  part  in  local  politics,  he  gave  largely  to 
local  charities,  endowing  a  hospital,  a  school  for 
orphans,  a  public  library,  building  an  ornamental 
fountain  in  the  market-place  of  the  little  village — 
and  he  felt  that  though  the  people  spoke  thanks, 
they  did  not  give  thanks. 

They  doffed  their  caps  and  bowed;  they  stepped 
to  one  side  when  they  met  him  in  the  narrow 
streets;  they  said  "bonjour,  monsieur  le  marquis" 
with  their  metallic  southern  voices;  they  brought 
him  fruit  and  flowers  on  the  days  of  the  great 
saints. 

Yet  they  made  him  feel  that  he  was  a  French 
man,  a  foreigner,  an  intruder,  while  they  were  Cor- 
sicans,  sufficient  to  themselves,  doing  and  feeling 
nothing  in  quite  the  same  way  as  other  people,  and 


SILENCE  169 

placing  themselves,  perhaps  consciously,  apart  from 
other  people. 

He  noticed,  too,  that  they  never  addressed  his 
wife  as  "madame  la  marquise,"  but  by  her  maiden 
name  of  Pozzo-Paoli,  and  when  he  mentioned  it  to 
her,  half  jesting  and  half  bitter,  she  replied  that 
they  were  right. 

"Marriage/*  she  said,  "is  the  matter  of  one  life 
— of  two  lives,  rather — which  begins  with  a  priest's 
mumbled  words  and  which  stops  at  the  grave.  But 
my  name,  my  clan,  my  blood — why,  mon  pauvre 
ami,  it  is  like  this  land — eternal — the  result  of  cen 
turies  and  centuries  and  centuries!" 

He  loved  her.  In  a  way,  he  was  happy.  But 
he  felt  the  barrier  which  was  between  him  and  her, 
and  he  tried  to  analyze  and  dissect  it  in  his  sane, 
logical  French  way. 

At  first  he  ascribed  it  to  the  difference  in  the 
sex  relations  which  exist  north  and  south — the  dif 
ference  which  in  the  north,  in  France  and  England, 
gives  the  erotic  superiority  and  aggressiveness  to 
the  man,  and  in  the  south  to  the  woman,  together 
with  a  sort  of  intense  and  grave  adjustment  of 
nervous  energy. 


170  WINGS 

But  gradually  he  understood  that,  in  the  case  of 
Laetitia,  this  analysis  was  wrong.  He  felt  that  the 
invisible  barrier  was  not  the  result  of  inherited  tem 
perament  and  atavistic  qualities  and  impulses,  but 
due  to  the  direct  influence  of  the  land  itself — a 
land,  he  said  to  himself,  which  had  the  physical  and 
spiritual  attributes  of  Man;  and  he  brooded  on  the 
thought  until  often,  in  his  dreams,  he  felt  like  tak 
ing  the  land  by  the  throat  and  throttling  it  as  he 
would  a  man — a  man  who  had  stolen  his  wife's 
love. 

As  he  walked  through  the  village  he  imagined 
that  there  was  laughter  and  mocking  and  enmity 
in  the  air — in  the  rustle  of  the  trees,  in  the  hot 
swing  of  the  breeze,  the  dim  stir  of  the  dry  beach 
grass,  and  the  tinkling  of  the  goat-bells. 

He  would  have  liked  to  ascribe  it  to  some  patho 
logical  disturbance,  but  he  knew  that  he  was  per 
fectly  sane — and  so,  early  one  afternoon  in  mid 
summer,  he  spoke  of  it  to  his  wife. 

He  tried  to  speak  of  it  jestingly,  like  a  man  bur 
dened  by  a  conviction  as  certain  as  fate,  and  bur- 
iened,  too,  by  the  other  conviction  that  confession 
and  utterance  would  bring  disbelief  and  stark,  gap 
ing  iidicule;  and  so  he  was  shocked — shocked  and 


SILENCE  171 

afraid — when  his  wife  confirmed  his  subconscious 
suspicion  in  a  matter-of-fact  way. 

"Why,  yes,  my  friend,"  she  said,  "you  are  quite 
right.  This  land — this  village — these  rocks  are  liv 
ing,  living.  I've  tried  to  tell  you  so  before.  Cor 
sica  has  a  heart — and  that  heart  does  not  love  you 
— it  does  not  like  you — and  I — " 

"You — you — what  about  you?"  he  cried,  sud 
denly  furious. 

She  pulled  his  long  Gallic  mustache. 

"Raoul,"  she  said  in  a  burst  of  lean,  wiry  vivac 
ity,  and  looking  straight  at  him,  "I  am  a  woman — 
and  a  Corsican.  And  this — this  land  of  mine — it 
will  lie  for  me — it  will  kill  for  me,  and" — she  hes 
itated,  then  continued — "it  will  be  silent  for  me!" 

And  when,  quiet  once  more,  but  puzzled,  he  asked 
her  to  explain  what  she  meant  by  her  last  words, 
she  gave  him  a  rapid  little  kiss  and  told  him  that 
it  was  time  for  his  afternoon  walk. 

For,  straight  through  the  hottest  months  of  the 
year,  he  had  the  habit  of  long,  daily  afternoon 
walks,  at  a  time  when  all  the  villagers  were  taking 
their  siesta  behind  closed  shutters,  and  when  nobody 
was  abroad  except  himself  and  the  little,  pale-blue 
butterflies. 


172  WINGS 

He  walked  down  the  length  of  the  main  street, 
past  the  little  white,  stone  houses  asleep  in  the  sun, 
past  the  mairie  where  the  pompous  mayor  was 
drowsing  across  from  the  pompous  chief  of  gen 
darmes,  past  the  great  cast-iron  fountain  which  he 
had  given  to  the  municipality;  and  again  he  felt 
the  harsh  enmity  of  the  land. 

It  was  hotter  than  usual — with  a  sort  of  hushed, 
dry,  tense  heat  which  sent  the  blood  racing  through 
his  veins;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that,  beneath  his 
feet,  from  the  heart  of  the  land,  he  could  hear  a 
muffled,  staccato  breathing  which  was  like  the 
breathing  of  a  huge,  amorphous  beast — a  beast 
about  to  rise  and  stretch — and  kill — as  though, 
across  the  forests  and  rocks  on  its  breast,  the  spirit 
of  Corsica  called  to  him — mocking,  jeering,  cruel, 
inimical — and  currents  of  subterranean  earth  life 
tugged  and  jerked  at  his  self. 

The  marquis  dried  his  face  with  his  handker 
chief. 

Once  more  he  tried  to  tell  himself  that  it  was  all 
the  result  of  a  pathological  disturbance,  and  that 
what  he  needed  was  a  trip  to  Paris,  three  hundred 
francs  paid  into  the  hands  of  Dr.  Hector  Laflique, 
the  alienist,  and  a  brome  prescription  filled  at  the 


SILENCE  173 

nearest  drug-store;  but  even  as  he  tried  to  force 
the  thought  on  his  subconscious  mind,  he  knew 
that  he  was  only  playing  hide-and-seek  with  his 
sensations,  that  he  was  bluffing  himself. 

There  was  no  doubt  of  it.  The  land  was  living, 
living! — just  as  his  wife  had  said — and,  beneath 
his  feet,  it  bunched  with  a  terrible  power  that 
sought  to  dispel  and  drive  him  through  space — like 
something  hated  and  useless  which  was  not  wanted, 
here,  in  Corsica. 

His  sense  of  hearing  became  tensely  acute,  and, 
in  the  hot,  still  air,  the  whisper  of  the  earth  grew 
— it  flew  up  and  called  to  him  with  a  great,  broken, 
rumbling  shout. 

He  trembled,  then  lurched  curiously  to  one  side. 
The  balance  and  adjustment  of  his  physical  frame 
seemed  to  shift  and  alter.  Very  suddenly  a  black 
haze  shot  with  sulfurous-yellow,  rose  in  the  west. 
The  ocean  bloated  and  recoiled.  The  harried  sun 
shivered  out  of  sight.  The  ground  writhed  and 
groaned  like  a  woman  in  travail.  A  wind  sprang 
up,  red-hot  as  from  a  gigantic  furnace,  and  rattled 
all  the  million  leaves. 

Another  writhe  and  groan,  of  unutterable  suffer 
ing  and  unutterable  loneliness. 


174  WINGS 

Then  he  felt  a  strange,  sinking  sensation  at  the 
pit  of  his  stomach  and  fell,  face  foremost. 

An  immense  dark  shutter  dropped  noiselessly, 
with  the  speed  of  lightning,  across  his  mind;  and, 
even  at  the  moment  of  losing  consciousness,  he  told 
himself  that  he  had  lost  and  that  Corsica  had  won. 

The  first  thing  which  he  felt  when  he  recovered 
his  senses  was  that  a  star  was  looking  at  him ;  then 
two,  then  three,  and  finally  he  saw  that  it  was  night 
and  that  the  heavens  were  clear  again. 

He  staggered,  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  stared.  He 
touched  his  arms  and  legs — no — he  was  not 
wounded ! 

But  what  had  happened? 

He  looked  out,  to  the  sea.  It  stretched,  in  a 
sodden,  immobile  calm;  but  suddenly  it  seemed  to 
him  that  it  had  changed,  that  the  edge  of  the  hori 
zon  was  more  flat  than  it  had  been  before. 

Then  he  understood — there  had  been  an  earth 
quake.  He  turned  quickly,  toward  the  village. 

It  was  not  there. 

There  was  only  a  ruined,  broken  mass,  with  pink 
and  orange  flame-tongues  licking  over  it,  while  be 
hind  the  stiff,  lanky  poplars  which  edged  the  mairie 


SILENCE  175 

'a  high-blazing,  fuliginous  whirl  of  smoke  was  touch 
ing  the  skies. 

He  stood  quite  still.  His  eyes  sought  the  famil 
iar  silhouette  of  the  gaunt  old  castle  and,  with  a 
crash  in  his  brain,  he  realized  that  that,  too,  had 
disappeared. 

The  land  had  taken  toll — it  had  wiped  out  the 
home  which  had  witnessed  his  love  and  his  happi 
ness. 

And  Laetitia — his  wife?  She  must  be  among 
the  ruins ! 

With  the  cry  of  a  wounded  animal  the  marquis 
stumbled  through  the  battered,  crumpled  streets. 
As  he  passed  the  mairie  the  whole  side  of  it  gave 
way  and  came  tumbling  down  in  a  mad,  twisting, 
smoking  heap.  A  flaming  beam  grazed  his  face. 
He  brushed  it  aside  as  he  would  an  insect,  and 
kept  on. 

This  land,  he  thought  incoherently  as  he  ran, 
this  land  of  Corsica — it  had  killed  his  wife;  and 
he  shook  his  fists  at  the  trees  and  the  rocks  while 
great  tears  blurred  his  eyes. 

But  he  kept  on  in  the  direction  of  the  gaunt, 
gray  blotch  where  the  castle  had  stood,  stepping 


i/6  WINGS 

here  and  there  on  shapeless,  black  things  which 
writhed  and  moaned  as  his  feet  touched  them. 

The  air  was  torn  with  the  cries  of  animals,  and 
of  men  and  women  and  little  children. 

"Padre!"  "Madre!"  "0  misericordia!"  "Au  se- 
cours!"  "Dieu!"  "Sangu  Cristu!"  came  the  shrill, 
agonized  shouts  in  a  mixture  of  French  and  Cor- 
sican;  and  he  passed  men  who  were  staggering  as 
if  they  were  drunk,  their  hands  stretched  out  in 
front  of  them;  there  were  others  who  were  sitting 
on  the  debris  of  their  homes,  still,  vacant-eyed,  as 
if  turned  into  stone;  and  one  woman  had  gone  mad 
— she  was  dancing  among  the  slow-lapping  flames, 
her  skirts  kilted  to  her  knees,  a  dead  babe  in  her 
arms. 

He  ran  on. 

Would  he  arrive  in  time?  Perhaps  she  was  still 
alive,  mercifully  imprisoned  by  some  stout  stones 
or  beams. 

There  was  a  choked,  sobbing  cry  for  help  from 
a  ruined  mass  to  the  left  of  the  church,  and  he 
saw,  sharp  in  the  moonlight,  the  naked  arm  of  a 
woman  stretching  from  between  a  jagged  pile  of 
burning  wood.  The  fingers,  covered  with  rings, 
groped  blindly,  like  the  tentacles  of  an  octopus. 


SILENCE  177 

But  the  marquis  did  not  stop  to  help.  His  eyes 
saw;  his  brain  registered  the  stark  fact  of  the  thing; 
but  there  was  no  meaning  to  it,  nor  was  there  pity 
in  his  soul. 

There  was  only  the  thought  of  his  wife,  up  there, 
among  the  crumbling,  choking  ruins. 

When  he  reached  the  hill  whence  once  the  castle 
of  the  Pozzo-Paolis  had  frowned  on  the  village, 
he  saw  that  nothing  was  left  standing  except  an  old 
carved  Gothic  wall,  and  above  it,  supported  by  iron 
corbels  which  were  twisted  into  the  silhouette  of 
some  grinning,  obscene  maw,  a  balcony  swinging 
crazily  from  side  to  side  like  a  gigantic  spider-web. 

He  stopped,  out  of  breath,  shivering  in  spite  of 
the  heat  which  fanned  up  from  the  burning  village, 
undecided  what  to  do  and  how  to  do  it. 

Of  course  she  was  down  there,  somewhere  among 
the  jagged  stones  and  the  charred  timbers. 

But  where  should  he  begin  his  search  ?  He  knew 
that  he  must  find  her  even  if  she  was  dead — that 
he  could  not  leave  her  dead  body  crushed  and  bur 
ied  by  Corsican  soil,  a  trophy  to  the  lust  of  this 
sinister,  man-killing  land ;  and  so,  very  gently,  with 
infinite  precautions,  clutching  a  broken  beam  here 
and  a  twisted,  bent  end  of  metal  there,  he  swung 


178  WINGS 

himself  up  to  the  ruins  of  the  castle  as  if  he  were 
afraid  to  hurt  the  loved  body  through  the  heavy 
layer  of  stone  and  masonry  which  covered  it. 

So  he  worked  with  superhuman  strength,  tear 
ing  off  wood  and  metal  like  so  much  paper,  lifting 
massive  blocks  of  smooth  marble  and  coarse 
grained  granite,  and  tossing  them  over  his  shoulder 
as  if  they  were  pebbles,  attacking  with  his  bare 
hands  beams  studded  with  rusty  nails  and  other 
beams  still  smoldering  and  hot. 

Hour  after  hour  he  worked,  stopping  now  and 
then  to  call  "Laetitia!  Laetitia!" 

And  when  the  young  sun  boomed  up  in  the  west 
he  was  still  there,  tearing,  jerking,  lifting,  clawing, 
pushing — with  his  naked,  frenzied  hands,  while  the 
pulverized  plaster  ran  through  his  fingers  like  wa 
ter,  and  while  occasionally  a  stone  which  he  had 
braced  up  with  terrible  effort  tumbled  back  into 
place — crushing  him,  wounding  him. 

Quite  suddenly  there  was  a  shifting  and  heav 
ing  among  the  ruins.  He  saw  that  his  labors  had 
displaced  a  large  mass  of  stones  and  masonry  which 
slid  to  one  side  with  a  protesting  rumble. 

A  hole,  black,  mysterious,  yawned  at  his  feet  and, 


SILENCE  179 

sticking  out  of  it  was  a  bit  of  rose-and-silver  bro 
cade — the  wall-covering  of  his  wife's  bedroom. 

The  marquis  stooped  and  reached  down  into  the 
hole.  Then  he  gave  a  cry. 

He  had  touched  bare  flesh — flesh  which  was  soft 
and  clay-cold. 

Again  he  groped.  His  fingers  strayed  up.  They 
encountered  a  tangled  mass  of  curly  hair. 

He  withdrew  his  fingers  and,  without  as  much 
as  a  groan,  the  marquis  recommenced  his  work. 

She  was  in  there — perhaps  she  was  still  alive. 

"Mary,  Mother  of  God!" — the  prayer  surged  in 
his  heart;  and  with  kicks  and  jerks,  pushing  and 
clawing,  frantically,  desperately,  he  bent  to  the  task, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  ripping  away  the 
very  intestines  of  this  harsh  land  which  had  impris 
oned  his  best  beloved  in  an  avalanche  of  senseless, 
cruel  ruin. 

Finally  he  summoned  all  his  strength,  all  his  love, 
and  all  his  despair  into  a  gigantic  effort 

There  was  a  crunching,  protesting  noise — a  sud 
den  recoil  which  sent  the  marquis  spinning  back 
ward — broken  stones  fell  with  a  whistling  noise 
like  musketry  fire,  and  the  hole  gaped  far  apart. 

The  marquis  stepped  down  into  it.     A  haggard 


i8o  WINGS 

sun-ray  danced  in,  as  if  to  show  him  the  way;  and 
there,  stretched  on  a  divan,  dressed  in  a  foamy, 
lacy  negligee,  was  his  wife. 

He  looked  at  her.  He  knew  at  once  that  she 
was  dead ;  and  he  bent  down  to  kiss  her  cold  lips. 

"Oh,  Laetitia,  my  love,  my  wife!"  he  cried  in  a 
voice  that  was  a  barely  audible  croak.  "Oh,  my 
love—" 

Then,  suddenly,  he  drew  himself  up  again.  He 
stood  quite  still. 

For,  bending  down,  he  had  seen  another  body — 
the  body  of  a  man — a  few  feet  away. 

He  looked  again  at  the  face  of  his  wife.  An 
ecstatic  smile  was  playing  about  the  cold  lips — a 
smile  of  love — of  desire — 

And  over  there  was  the  body  of  a  man — not  a 
servant  come  in  to  warn  his  mistress  when  the  first 
rumbling  of  the  earth  had  shaken  the  towers  of 
the  ancient  castle — but  a  well-dressed  man,  a  gentle 
man — and  between  his  cramped  fingers  there  was  a 
spray  of  stephanotis,  the  sweet-smelling  exotic 
which  was  his  wife's  favorite  flower — 

The  marquis  was  quite  calm,  quite  silent.  He 
accepted  his  fate. 

Here,  before  his  eyes,  was  the  fact  that  his  wife 


SILENCE  181 

had    deceived    him,    and    there    was    no    challeng 


ing  it. 


It  did  not  even  allow  of  jealousy;  for  jealousy 
is  bred  by  doubt — and  not  by  knowledge 

But,  somehow,  it  seemed  vital  to  him  that  he 
should  know  the  name  of  this  dead  man. 

So  he  stooped  down  and  looked;  and  then  he 
gave  a  cry ;  one  of  those  long-drawn,  quivering  cries 
in  which  the  soul  tries  to  burst  the  bonds  of  the 
tortured  mind  and  to  find  refuge  in  the  madness 
of  forgetting. 

His  wife  had  been  right.  She  had  said  that 
Corsica  would  lie  for  her  and  kill  for  her  and  be 
silent  for  her. 

Here  was  the  proof. 

For  the  soil  of  Corsica  had  crushed  the  face  of 
his  wife's  lover  into  unrecognizable  pulp. 

Yes — Corsica  had  won — in  life  it  had  stolen  the 
love  of  his  wife,  and  in  death  it  still  shielded  the 
dishonoring  secret;  and  slowly,  like  a  man  in  a 
dream,  the  marquis  walked  away  from  the  ruin, 
back  through  the  streets  of  the  crumbling  village. 

He  stopped  every  man  with  the  same,  flat,  trem 
bling  question : 

"Monsieur,  did  you  by  any  chance  recognize  the 


182  WINGS 

— ah — the  gentleman  who  called  on  my  wife  this 
afternoon?" 

But  nobody  replied,  though  everybody  knew; 
and  so,  finally,  he  came  to  Father  Gustave,  the  old 
priest  who  for  years  had  officiated  at  the  village 
church — the  old  priest  who  afterwards  followed 
him  to  Paris  and  remained  close  to  him,  for  the  love 
of  Christ  and  because  of  the  pity  in  his  soul. 


KHIZR 

AND  thus  it  came  about  that  twelve  days  after 
Beiram,  the  great  King  Suleiman — master  of  the 
seven  climes,  emperor  of  the  winds,  illustrious  sul 
tan  of  jinns  and  giants — took  his  youngest  son, 
Aziz-Ullah,  by  the  hand  and  led  him  into  the  golden 
hall  of  state  where  he  made  to  seat  him  on  the 
throne  of  the  Caliphs.  Then  the  King  sent  out 
black  slaves,  dressed  in  purple  and  silver,  and  com 
manded  them  to  summon  to  his  presence  his  thirty 
vezirs  and  his  ninety  sons;  and  when  they  had  all 
assembled  in  the  golden  hall  of  state,  he  spoke  to 
them,  saying: 

"My  youngest  son,  Aziz-Ullah,  shall  be  ruler  in 
my  stead,  for  he  has  shown  himself  to  be  as  wise  as 
Haroun-el-Rashid.  Nay,  he  is  as  wise  as  Omar, 
the  great  Caliph,  on  whom  be  peace;  and  thus  I 
shall  cede  to  him  the  mastery  of  the  seven  climes, 
the  empire  of  the  winds,  the  sultanate  of  jinns  and 
giants.  To  him  I  give  the  hand  of  the  beautiful 
Princess  Zoleide." 

183 


WINGS 

And  Aziz-Ullah  bowed  humbly  before  his  father, 
the  great  King  Suleiman,  and  all  rejoiced;  slaves 
brought  sherbet  and  coffee  and  pipes  with  long 
mouthpieces  of  amber  and  diamond,  and  then  a 
story-teller  from  Egypt  entered  the  golden  hall  of 
state  and  he  told  the  story  of  the  faithless  \vife  and 
the  just  kadee,  which  is  the  story  of  Khizr,  the 
mighty  spirit,  and  Khassoum  ibn  Taib,  the  seeker 
for  wisdom. 

Yes,  you  children  of  Arab  fathers,  gladly  I  shall 
tell  you  the  wonderful  story,  the  true  story  which 
relates  how  wickedness  was  punished,  how  right 
eousness  found  its  shining  reward,  and  which 
also  proves  once  more  that  woman  is  the  mother 
of  deceit  and  falsehood — Do  not  bite  your  mus 
tache,  young  brother  of  my  heart,  even  if  your  wife 
is  young  and  the  apple  of  your  eye;  well  we  know 
it,  for  did  we  not  see  you  bringing  presents  to  her 
father's  house  only  two  moons  ago?  Before  you 
drain  the  wine  of  life,  you  will  yet  learn  to  remem 
ber  the  wise  saying  of  the  great  King  Solomon  of 
the  tribe  of  Israel:  "Obedience  to  women  is  the 
entrance  gate  to  Jehenna." 

I  shall  tell  you  the  story  of  stories,  full  of  wis- 


KHIZR  185 

dom  and  as  clever  as  the  fable  of  the  wolf  and 
the  fox ;  but,  by  the  beard  of  the  Prophet,  on  whom 
be  peace,  I  am  but  a  poor  man  and  my  children 
are  many  and  starving.  Alms  are  the  wealth  of 
the  poor,  my  brothers;  give  me  a  handful  of 
piastres,  a  little  child's  handful  of  small  silver 
piastres,  and  may  Allah  never  open  to  me  the  gates 
of  Paradise  if  I  do  not  delight  your  hearts  with 
the  true  story  of  the  just  kadee  and  the  faithless 
woman, 

Alhamdulillah! — Blessings  on  him  who  is  open- 
handed  and  kind  to  the  poor — Thanks,  my  master, 
may  Allah  grant  thee  eternal  happiness;  may  the 
hand  of  Ali  protect  thy  children  and  thy  children's 
children  from  the  evil  eye — 

I  am  poor  and  my  children  are  starving — thanks, 
son  of  noble  sires,  thou  art  indeed  as  generous  as 
Mahrcud,  the  great  Sultan,  and  thou  dost  not  look 
with  indifference  on  thy  starving  neighbor — pass 
the  bowl  to  the  left,  for  I  see  another  true  believer 
ready  to  loosen  the  strings  of  his  bulging  purse  to 
give  alms  to  this  poorest  of  story-tellers. 

Praises  be  to  the  Most  High! — Here  is  another 
and  even  another  who  know  the  words  in  the  book 


1 86  WINGS 

of  the  Koran:  "O  true  believers,  bestow  alms  of 
the  good  things  which  ye  have  gained  to  those 
threatened  with  poverty." 

Ye  are  indeed  Moslim;  I  take  refuge  in  the  cool 
ing  shadow  of  your  generosity,  and  now  I  shall  tell 
you  the  story  which  delighted  the  heart  of  Aziz- 
Ullah,  of  his  noble  father,  his  ninety  brothers  and 
the  thirty  vezirs ;  the  story  of  the  wisest  of  kadees 
and  the  most  deceitful  of  women,  which  is  the  story 
of  Khassoum  and  Khizr,  the  mighty  spirit. 

Know  then,  ye  sons  of  Arab  fathers,  that  once 
there  existed  a  land  which  the  unbelievers  had  not 
yet  overrun  with  their  merchants  and  their  soldiers, 
their  railways  and  their  black-coated  priests.  In 
this  land  there  was  a  town  which  the  Prophet  him 
self  had  honored  with  his  presence;  it  was  a  town 
holier  than  Kairwan  before  the  French — Allah's 
curse  on  them  and  their  children — had  desecrated 
its  sacred  buildings,  and  greater  and  richer  than 
Stamboul  itself,  the  home  of  the  Caliph,  the  com 
mander  of  the  faithful. 

This  town  was  the  asylum  of  knowledge  and  in 
struction,  the  abode  of  greatness,  the  home  of  jus 
tice  and  piety;  the  wondering  gaze  of  the  stranger 
beheld  there  three  thousand  public  baths,  built  of 


KHIZR  187 

marble  and  granite;  and  the  minarets  of  innumer 
able  mosques  pointing  to  the  sky  like  so  many  thou 
sands  of  masts  in  the  port  of  Algiers — great  mos 
ques,  white  and  dazzling  in  the  yellow  sunshine, 
prayers  of  stone,  built  to  commemorate  the  holy 
names  of  the  Most  High  King  of  men,  the  Al 
mighty,  the  Everlasting  who  has  created  and  dis 
posed  of  thousands  of  worlds.  There  is  no  God 
but  He. 

In  this  town  there  lived  two  brothers,  Nassim 
and  Khassoum,  the  sons  of  Hadji  Taib,  a  rich  seller 
of  perfumes  who  had  come  from  Yemen,  the  home 
of  his  ancestors. 

One  day  a  marabout  on  pilgrimage  bent,  found 
hospitality  in  Taib's  house,  and  he  looked  at  the 
palms  of  Nassim  and  Khassoum  who  were  playing 
in  the  courtyard  and  said :  "Taib,  thy  son  Nassim 
shall  be  rich  and  powerful;  but  he  shall  perish 
through  his  brother's  love.  Khassoum,  thy  second- 
born,  shall  be  poor;  but  Khizr,  the  mighty  spirit, 
shall  be  always  at  his  right  and  shall  teach  him  to 
seek  for  the  innermost  secret  of  Islam.  He  shall 
know  the  knowledge  of  books,  the  love  of  the  flesh, 
the  bitterness  of  deceit,  the  triumph  of  justice — and 
then  he  shall  know  Islam." 


i88  WINGS 

Taib  listened  to  the  inspired  words  of  the  holy 
marabout,  and  then  he  went  to  the  harem  and  told 
the  mother  of  his  two  sons  what  had  been 
prophesied. 

The  two  brothers  grew  up  side  by  side,  and  when 
they  had  reached  the  age  of  manhood  they  went 
together  on  pilgrimage  to  behold  the  blessed  towns 
of  Mecca  and  Medina. 

Now,  Hadji  Khassoum  was  a  noble  youth  and  a 
true  Moslim;  he  was  resigned  unto  Allah,  pious 
and  generous;  he  was  an  old  man  in  prudence,  but 
a  youth  in  the  might  of  his  two  strong  arms;  his 
face  was  as  fair  as  the  moon  on  the  fourteenth  day, 
and  his  body  as  slender  and  supple  as  a  Damascan 
blade;  his  sword  was  triumphant  in  the  cause  of 
justice,  and  when  he  opened  his  mouth  to  speak, 
men  would  point  at  him  and  say:  "Listen  to  the 
pilgrim  whose  words  are  like  sweet  liquid  honey; 
he  is  indeed  as  wise  as  'Asef." 

Such  was  Khassoum,  the  son  of  Taib. 

But  his  elder  brother,  Nassim,  was  shaped  in  the 
likeness  of  Eblis,  the  cursed  father  of  lies;  the  fruit 
of  his  mouth  was  bitter  and  his  sharp  tongue  darted 
forth  venom  like  the  unclean  reptile  found  in  the 


KHIZR  189 

grass;  the  poor  starved  at  his  door,  and  he  bared 
his  dagger  only  to  further  the  rule  of  iniquity  and 
of  oppression;  he  was  indeed  like  the  snake  which 
stings  his  mother  and  kills  her  even  as  she  bears 
him.  He,  too,  was  a  Hadji;  but  the  circumambu- 
lation  of  the  shrines  had  done  him  little  good  and 
he  returned  from  Mecca  as  bad  and  cruel  and 
greedy  and  faithless  as  on  the  day  when  he  had 
donned  the  pilgrim's  garb.  Allah  had  sealed  his 
heart,  and  whenever  he  was  seen  holding  converse 
with  another  man,  the  little  children  would  gather 
around  him  and  say :  "Who  is  the  man  whom  you 
are  duping  to-day,  O  Nassim,  son  of  Taib  ?" 

But  you  know  the  heart  of  woman;  ana  you 
know  that  in  a  mother's  eye  every  scorpion  is  a 
fleet  gazelle. 

Thus  you  will  not  wonder  when  I  tell  you  that 
the  mother  of  the  two  brothers  loved  Nassim  with 
a  far  greater  love  than  the  noble  Khassoum.  Her 
first-born  was  indeed  the  apple  of  her  eye,  and  on 
him  she  lavished  all  her  caresses;  and  when  Taib, 
the  father  of  her  children,  the  rich  seller  of  per 
fumes,  lay  on  his  death-bed,  her  woman's  wit  spoke 
to  the  great  love  which  she  bore  her  elder  son. 


190  WINGS 

She  thought  of  the  marabout's  prophesy  and  trem 
bled  for  the  fate  of  her  elder  son;  and  she  per 
suaded  Taib  to  leave  to  Nassim  all  his  belongings; 
his  town  house  with  its  pillared  courtyards  of  inlaid 
marble,  its  cooling  fountain  and  its  ceilings  covered 
with  green  and  gold  arabesques;  his  country  estate 
with  its  hanging  gardens  and  its  orchards  of  al 
mond,  date,  apricot  and  orange ;  his  rich  shop  in  the 
Sukh  Attarin,  where  his  agents  sold  to  the  wealthy 
the  perfumes  of  Arabia,  essences  of  rose,  of  violet 
and  of  geranium. 

Thus,  when  fate  rolled  up  the  scroll  of  Taib's 
life,  Nassim  inherited  all  his  father's  fortune,  and 
he  prospered  exceedingly.  Every  enterprise  he 
touched  turned  into  gold :  he  made  treaties  with  the 
pirates  of  the  Barbary  coast,  and  to  him  they 
brought  the  fairest  and  strongest  of  the  Giaour 
slaves  whom  they  captured;  his  caravans,  guarded 
by  armed  Bedawin  tribes,  crossed  the  desert  from 
the  white  Nile  to  the  black  ranges  of  the  Atlas, 
from  the  sweet  shores  of  Tripoli  to  the  desert  cities 
of  the  far  bitter  South;  his  ships  brought  mer 
chandise  from  Stamboul,  Oman,  Damascus,  and 
even  from  far  off  China,  and  the  people  looked  up 
when  he  passed  and  said  to  each  other:  "There 


KHIZR  191 

goes  Nassim,  the  son  of  Taib,  the  great  merchant"; 
for  let  but  a  dog  roll  in  gold,  and  the  men  in  the 
bazaar  will  call  him  "Sir  Dog." 

His  fame  was  great  throughout  the  lands  of  the 
Moslim;  and  from  the  dazzling  palace  of  the 
Sheriff  at  Mecca  to  the  somber  tents  of  the  mur 
derous  Tauregs,  all  knew  the  name  of  Nassim,  the 
rich. 

And  ever  greater  became  his  greed  tor  the  hard 
yellow  gold;  forgetting  the  commandments  of  the 
Messenger  Mohammed — on  whom  be  peace — he 
formed  partnerships  with  the  Jew  and  the  Giaour 
merchants  who  lived  in  the  coast  towns  and  lent 
out  money  at  usuring  rates  of  interest.  His  wealth 
increased,  and  the  more  it  increased,  the  more  he 
tightened  the  strings  of  his  purse;  he  endowed  no 
mosques,  no  libraries  rich  in  written  knowledge,  no 
shrines  to  commemorate  the  glories  of  Islam's  fight 
ing  marabouts.  He  built  no  fountains  and  dug  no 
wells  to  assure  to  himself  the  gratitude  and  the 
blessings  of  future  generations;  and  the  people  in 
the  bazaars  who  called  him  Effendi  to  his  face, 
called  him  a  pig,  the  son  of  a  pig  with  a  pig's  heart, 
as  soon  as  his  back  was  turned;  and  the  little  chil 
dren  would  run  into  the  houses  of  their  parents 


192  WINGS 

when  they  heard  his  shuffling  gait,  and  secure  be 
hind  the  latticed  windows  they  would  cry: 

"O  Nassim,  son  of  Taib  and  grandson  of  a  dog, 
thy  feet  are  as  thy  knees,  thy  knees  are  as  thy  belly, 
thy  belly  is  as  thy  face,  and  thy  face  is  ugly  and 
fat.  Look  at  the  Moslim  whose  beard  is  gray  and 
dirty.  Do  not  weep,  or  thou  wilt  make  us  laugh; 
do  not  laugh,  or  thou  wilt  make  us  weep.  Behold 
the  Moslim  to  whom  was  given  a  cursed  stone  in 
stead  of  a  heart.  May  Allah  grant  that  thou 
mayest  go  to  bed  and  never  rise  again." 

Such  was  Nassim,  the  son  of  Taib,  who  inherited 
all  his  father's  fortune  and  who  turned  from  his 
door  Hadji  Khassoum,  his  only  brother,  the  noble 
child  of  the  morning. 

But  Khassoum  laughed  the  laugh  of  the  free  in 
mind  and  strong  in  body;  he  left  the  house  of  his 
father,  and  with  his  last  purse  he  bought  himself  a 
fine  white  racing  dromedary,  a  pedigreed  animal, 
sure-footed  and  fleet.  With  a  song  and  a  prayer 
on  his  lips,  he  left  the  town  of  his  birth  and  went 
into  the  desert. 

He  rode  eastward  across  the  yellow  lands  until 
he  reached  the  green  oasis  of  Bir  Tef  guia,  and  there 
he  knocked  at  the  gates  of  a  great  white  monastery. 


KHIZR  193 

The  holy  derwishes  of  the  brotherhood,  the  beloved 
ones  of  Allah,  opened  the  gates  and  gave  him  food 
and  shelter.  They  were  old  men,  with  the  dignity 
of  white  beards,  but  they  loved  the  youth  who  had 
come  to  them  from  the  West,  and  they  gave  to  him 
a  little  cell  which  opened  towards  a  garden,  rich 
with  fruits  and  flowers  of  many  colors. 

For  seven  years  Khassoum  ibn  Taib  lived  with 
the  inspired  ones  of  the  Bir  Tefguia;  there  were 
thousands  of  volumes  in  the  library  of  the  monas 
tery,  and  the  young  Hadji  would  read  and  read, 
and  think  and  think  until  his  knowledge  became  as 
vast  as  time,  as  deep  as  the  sea  and  as  broad  as  the 
river  Nile. 

But  ever  and  anon  the  voice  of  Khizr  spoke  to 
him,  saying:  "Khassoum,  a  pilgrim  thou  art  and 
rich  in  knowledge,  but  thou  hast  not  yet  learned 
the  lesson  of  true  wisdom.  Seek  on!" 

Khassoum  listened  to  the  voice  of  Khizr  and  he 
sought;  he  read  and  thought  and  read  again,  until 
his  was  the  knowledge  of  a  thousand  generations; 
at  his  command  the  spirits  of  the  soldiers,  the 
saints,  the  scholars  and  the  great  men  of  the  past 
would  fly  through  the  window  of  his  little  cell  and 
keep  him  company.  They  talked  to  him  and  taught 


194  WINGS 

him  until  it  seemed  that  he  had  reached  the  limits 
of  earthly  knowledge. 

Nature  herself  was  his  teacher,  and  nature  taught 
him  the  language  of  the  flowers  and  of  the  birds, 
the  songs  of  the  desert  winds  at  dawn  and  the  say 
ings  of  the  gurgling  water  in  the  wells — but  still 
the  voice  of  Khizr  said:  "Khassoum,  seek  on." 

He  sought — and  one  day  a  caravan  passed 
through  the  oasis  of  Bir  Tefguia,  and  Khassoum 
saw  amongst  it  a  girl;  she  was  of  those  Bedawin 
who  do  not  veil  their  faces,  and  he  thought  her 
fairer  than  the  young  day.  He  said  to  himself: 
"Now  have  I  found  what  the  voice  of  my  mind  has 
commanded  me  to  seek.  I  have  found  love." 

He  went  to  the  girl  of  the  Bedawin  and  said : 

"I  love  thee  and  thee  I  must  have.  I  have  wan 
dered  far  and  wide;  my  roaming  feet  have  brought 
me  to  Mecca  and  Medina,  across  the  four  deserts 
and  even  to  the  towns  of  Greece  and  of  Hindustan, 
the  home  of  the  unbelievers.  I  have  seen  the 
women  of  many  lands. 

"I  have  seen  the  women  of  Baloutchistan,  and 
their  eyes  were  brown  and  moist  like  those  of  the 
timid  gazelle.  I  have  looked  at  the  dark  women 
'pf  the  Nubian  plains,  and  I  thought  them  as  beauti- 


KHIZR  195 

ful  as  purple  shadows  of  the  dawning  sun.  My 
eyes  have  beheld  the  raven  locks  of  Persia's 
maidens,  and  I  compared  them  to  Leila;  I  dreamt 
of  Jamshid's  love.  I  have  heard  the  love  cry  of 
Circassian  slaves,  and  it  was  like  Damascan  silk 
torn  by  Damascan  daggers.  But  thou  art  fairer 
than  the  earth ;  thee  I  must  have,  be  thou  houri  or 
peri. 

"The  moon  rises  only  for  thee.  Thy  voice  is 
like  the  nightingale's,  thy  breath  like  the  wild 
jasmine  of  Lybia's  distant  shore.  My  heart  is  in 
thy  hands,  as  is  the  clay  in  the  hands  of  a  potter. 

"Thou  art  sweeter  than  the  roses  of  Ispahan,  the 
roses  of  a  thousand  leaves;  thou  art  as  graceful  as 
the  waving  pines  on  Syrian  hills.  I  love  thee,  thou 
daughter  of  Bedawin;  I  love  thee.  Thee  I  must 
have,  or  I  die." 

These  were  the  words  of  Khassoum's  great  love 
— and  the  voice  at  his  right  said:  "Khassoum, 
seek  on." 

But  love  had  sealed  his  ears  and  he  did  not  hear. 

Aziza,  the  daughter  of  the  Bedawin,  listened  to 
the  words  of  his  heart;  she  looked  at  him  and  he 
seemed  comely  in  her  eyes. 

Then  there  were  loud  rejoicings  among  the  Beda- 


196  WINGS 

win,  and  they  prepared  everything  for  the  marriage 
ceremony. 

But  the  hearts  of  the  derwisnes  in  the  great 
monastery  of  the  Bir  Tefguia  were  heavy  with  sad 
ness,  and  El  Mansouri,  their  wise  sheykh,  took  the 
youth  aside  and  said  to  him :  "Khassoum,  thou  art 
young  and  I  am  old;  but  the  old  heart  loves  the 
young  heart.  Thus  I  ask  thee  to  remember  the  say 
ing  of  the  sage:  'He  is  a  fool  who  marries  a 
stranger/ '  And  Khassoum  answered,  laughing 
carelessly:  "Great  sheykh,  thou  art  old  and  I  am 
young;  yet  does  the  young  heart  love  the  old  heart. 
Remember  thou  the  saying  of  the  Persian  poet: 
'Only  he  is  wise  who  loves/  ' 

Then  the  kind  derwishes  bowed  their  heads  to 
the  decrees  of  inevitable  fate;  and  they  talked 
amongst  themselves,  and  out  of  their  scanty  belong 
ings  they  gave  to  Khassoum,  that  he  might  send  a 
suitable  dower  to  the  maiden's  father. 

And  on  the  seventh  day  after  the  new  moon,  the 
marriage  ceremonies  began.  There  was  feasting 
during  four  days;  lambs  were  roasted  whole  and 
there  were  rivers  of  sherbet,  coffee  and  unfer- 
mented  palm-wine.  On  the  evening  of  the  fourth 
day  the  bride  went  to  her  master's  tent  which  had 


Tr\T 
197 

been  prepared  by  the  sheykh,  El  Mansouri.  Her 
nails  were  stained  with  henna,  her  eyebrows  were 
blackened,  and  she  looked  as  fair  as  the  rising  sun. 
She  was  accompanied  by  her  brothers  and  male 
cousins  who  wore  branches  of  almond  and  jasmine 
over  their  right  ears,  and  she  became  the  wife  of 
Khassoum,  the  son  of  Taib. 

So  they  left  the  hospitable  oasis  of  Bir  Tefguia 
find  rode  for  many  a  day.  His  love  grew,  and  he 
thought  of  the  poets  of  Teheran  and  he  called  her 
Mer-el-Nissar,  the  sun  amongst  women ;  but  still  he 
could  hear  the  voice  of  Khizr  saying  to  him  at 
dawn:  "Khassoum  ibn  Taib,  seek,  seek  on,  and 
thou  shalt  find."  But  Khassoum  was  deaf  to  the 
voice  of  Khizr,  the  mighty  spirit. 

One  night  Mer-el-Nissar  said  to  him:  "Khas 
soum,  thy  heart  is  marked  with  chastity  and  piety; 
thine  is  the  strength  of  body  and  the  clearness  of 
mind.  Thine  eyes  glow  with  the  intense  light  of 
those  blessed  ones  who  are  rich  in  wisdom.  I  love 
thee  well.  Sweet  are  the  words  which  flow  like 
honey  from  thy  tongue,  and  thou  callest  me  the  sun 
amongst  women,  the  loveliest  rose  amongst  the 
blooming  flowers.  Thou  hast  allowed  me  to  par 
take  of  the  rich  fruit  of  knowledge  stored  in  thy 


198  WINGS 

brain,  for  thou  art  as  good  as  thou  art  wise.  But 
tell  me,  Khassoum,  where  are  thy  people?  My 
limbs  are  weary  with  the  hard  yellow  desert,  and 
fain  would  I  rest  in  thy  harem,  thy  one,  thy  favorite 
wife.  Tell  me,  Khassoum,  where  is  thy  clan? 
Lead  me  to  them  that  I  may  love  them  even  as  I 
love  thee." 

And  Khassoum  answered  saying:  "Rose  of  my 
heart,  my  father  is  dead,  my  mother  is  dead.  I 
have  no  relative  but  one  brother,  Nassim;  he  is 
richer  than  the  Egyptian  merchants  who  live  in 
Jeddah,  but  his  heart  is  as  hard  as  the  rock  of 
Tank." 

When  Mer-el-Nissar  heard  the  name  of  Nassim 
the  rich,  the  black  snake  of  avarice  and  greed  reared 
his  venomous  head  in  her  heart,  and  she  cried :  "O 
Khassoum,  let  us  go  to  him  as  thou  lovest  me. 
He  is  thy  only  brother,  and  surely  he  will  be  glad 
to  see  thee,  and  give  us  shelter  and  food  and 
riches." 

Thus  she  begged  and  begged  until  she  had 
wearied  his  soul  and  he  assented. 

The  son  of  Taib  listened  not  to  the  voice  of  Khizr 
which  whispered  in  his  ear:  "Khassoum,  remem 
ber  the  words  of  Omar,  the  great  Caliph :  'Let  one 


KHIZR  199 

take  council  of  a  woman  and  do  the  opposite  of 
what  she  says/ ' 

So  they  turned  their  dromedaries'  heads  to  the 
West  and  rode  for  many  a  long  night  until  they 
came  to  the  village  of  El  Jebwina,  which  is  a  day's 
ride  from  the  holy  town  where  lived  Hadji  Nassim, 
the  rich  merchant.  When  they  reached  El  Jebwina, 
they  had  spent  their  last  purse;  so  they  sold  their 
dromedaries  and  that  night  slept  among  the  ani 
mals'  hoofs  in  the  courtyard  of  the  Khan.  The 
next  morning  they  set  out  on  foot,  just  as  the  sun 
appeared  on  Allah's  tent,  for  they  hoped  to  enter 
the  gates  of  the  great  town  before  dawn  spread  its 
gray  bournous  over  the  land. 

They  walked  and  walked  and  walked  until  their 
feet  were  tired  and  sore,  when  a  merchant  overtook 
them.  Rubies  and  diamonds  flashed  in  his  green 
turban,  his  cloak  was  of  the  finest  Bokhara  silk, 
and  he  rode  a  great  white  horse  which  was  like 
Borak,  the  lion-headed  horse  of  the  Prophet,  on 
whom  be  peace.  And  behold  it  was  Nassim  him 
self,  the  rich  brother,  the  man  with  the  heart  of 
stone. 

Khassoum  recognized  him  and  said :  "Nassim, 
it  is  I,  thy  brother,  who  is  speaking  to  thee,  and  this 


200  WINGS 

is  the  woman  who  shall  be  the  mother  of  my  sons. 
We  are  on  our  way  to  thy  great  house.  Wilt  thou 
not  give  us  food  and  shelter?" 

Nassim  looked  at  his  brother,  and  then  he  looked 
at  the  unveiled  features  of  the  Bedawin  girl;  and 
the  devil  of  lust  arose  within  him,  the  devil  of  lust 
and  cunning. 

He  jumped  from  his  horse  and  embraced  Khas^ 
soum,  even  as  Judas,  the  accursed,  embraced  Esa, 
the  holy  messenger  of  the  house  of  Imram,  and 
said:  "All  praise  to  the  Most  High  God,  Creator 
of  the  ten  thousand  worlds!  All  praise  to  the 
most  Benign  Lord,  who  weighs  life  and  death  in 
the  hollow  of  His  hand!  Praise  and  thanksgiving 
to  the  Almighty  who  has  granted  me  this  day  of 
days,  who  in  his  munificence  has  permitted  that  I 
may  yet  behold  the  beloved,  the  beloved  features  of 
Khassoum,  the  brother  of  my  heart,  before  I  die! 
Surely  I  shall  give  shelter  and  food  to  thee,  my 
brother,  and  to  the  noble  daughter  of  the  Bedawin 
who  walks  at  thy  side.  Gladly  I  would  give  to  thee 
my  horse,  but  I  am  a  weak  man,  my  feet  are  un 
used  to  the  hard  sand-grains  of  the  desert.  But 
my  horse  is  strong  enough  for  two.  So  let  the 
daughter  of  the  Bedawin  mount  behind  me;  and 


KHIZR  201 

thou,  strong  brother,  canst  follow  on  foot,  until  we 
reach  the  house  of  our  father,  where  I  shall  prepare 
a  great  feast." 

Joy  and  gratitude  filled  the  heart  of  Khassoum; 
he  helped  Mer-el-Nissar  upon  the  saddle  behind 
Nassim,  and  he  heeded  not  the  voice  of  Khizr  which 
whispered  in  his  ear:  "Khassoum,  seek  on,  and 
do  not  listen  to  the  words  of  those  rich  in  in 
iquity/' 

Thus  they  proceeded  on  their  journey  and  gradu 
ally  Nassim  increased  the  distance  between  himself 
and  his  brother  until  he  was  safely  out  of  hearing. 
Then  he  turned  slightly  in  his  high  saddle  and  said : 
"Girl  of  the  Bedawin,  remember  the  saying  of  the 
wise:  'Do  not  go  with  him  who  is  poor  and  who 
cannot  help  thee;  for  in  this  world  he  cannot  serve 
thee,  and  in  the  next  world  thou  must  be  weighed 
by  thyself  in  the  balance-scales  of  right  and  wrong, 
and  he  cannot  intercede  in  thy  behalf/  Even  such 
is  my  brother  who  is  behind  us  dragging  his  tired 
feet  in  the  sand.  He  can  give  thee  nothing  but  the 
dry  fruits  of  starvation  and  misery.  But  me,  men 
call  the  rich  Nassim,  and  well  they  may.  The  gates 
which  bar  the  entrance  to  my  palace  are  studded 
with  golden  nails  and  with  the  light  blue  stones  my 


202  WINGS 

caravans  bring  from  Afghanistan.  My  divans  are 
covered  with  silken  rugs  from  Khiva  and  Bokhara, 
and  even  the  meanest  of  my  black  slaves  is  dressed 
in  purple  and  silver.  Mine  are  the  choicest  pearls, 
and  emeralds  without  flaws ;  mine  are  riches  greater 
than  those  which  Ali  Baba  found  in  the  caves  of  the 
forty  thieves.  Say  but  the  one  word,  and  whatever 
I  possess  is  thine.  As  to  Khassoum — be  not 
afraid ;  I  have  six  Giaour  merchants  in  my  pay  who 
will  swear  to  anything  I  command  them  to.  And 
who  is  the  kadee  who  would  dare  to  accept  the  testi 
mony  of  the  miserable  Khassoum  against  that  of 
Nassim,  the  powerful,  the  rich,  and  that  of  the  six 
wealthiest  unbelievers  in  the  holy  town  which  thou 
canst  see  looming  in  the  blue  distance?" 

Sons  of  Arabs,  did  not  Omar,  the  great  Caliph, 
the  successor  of  the  Prophet — on  whom  be  benedic 
tions — say  that  the  heart  of  woman  is  always  mer 
cenary?  Even  so;  thus  you  will  not  be  surprised 
to  hear  that  Mer-cl-Nissar,  the  loveliest  sun 
amongst  the  Bedawin,  the  beloved  one  of  Khas 
soum' s  heart,  listened  with  joy  to  the  words  of 
Nassim  and  readily  agreed  to  his  evil  proposal. 
Accordingly,  when  they  came  to  a  crossroad,  the 
accursed  elder  son  of  Taib  spurred  his  horse,  and 


KHIZR  203 

soon  he  and  the  Bedawin  woman  were  nothing  but 
a  little  gray  cloud  of  dust  on  the  dim  horizon. 

In  vain  did  Khassoum  protest ;  they  neither  heard 
nor  heeded  his  entreaties ;  black  despair  and  sorrow 
and  a  great  understanding  came  over  him,  and  he 
heard  the  voice  of  Khizr,  the  mighty  spirit,  which 
whispered  into  his  ear:  "Seek  on,  thou  son  of 
Arab  sires,  and  thou  wilt  yet  learn  wisdom.  Thou 
hast  learned  one  lesson  to-day :  Do  not  put  all  thy 
eggs  into  one  basket,  and  if  thou  dost,  give  not  the 
basket  in  keeping  of  a  woman — her  whom  Allah 
has  created  without  soul.  Now  go  to  the  holy 
town  and  prostrate  thyself  at  the  feet  of  the  wise 
kadee,  Mohammed  Ed-Din,  and  there  thou  shalt 
learn  the  lesson  of  justice  and  true  wisdom.  Seek 
on,  Khassoum." 

Wearily  Khassoum  continued  his  journey 
towards  the  holy  town,  and  when  he  arrived  here 
he  went  to  the  house  of  the  kadee  and  told  him  what 
had  happened  to  him. 

Mohammed  Ed-Din  listened  and  said:  "By  the 
praised  name  of  Hassan,  the  son  of  Ali — on  whom 
be  peace  forever — justice  shall  be  thine,  and  dire 
punishment  the  lot  of  those  who  dare  to  break  the 
laws  of  the  written  word  of  the  Koran.  Did  not 


204  WINGS 

the  Prophet — blessings  on  him — say  that  Allah  will 
not  wrong  any  one,  even  the  weight  of  an  ant  ?" 

That  night  the  kadee,  the  protector  of  the  poor 
and  the  friend  of  the  oppressed,  gave  hospitality 
to  the  son  of  Taib,  the  noble  Khassoum,  and  the 
next  morning,  after  prayer,  he  sent  summons  to 
Nassim  and  to  the  Bedawin  woman  and  ordered 
them  to  appear  before  his  divan.  Nassim  came 
and  with  him  came  the  Bedawin  woman  and  also 
the  six  Greek  merchants  who  were  in  his  pay  and 
whom  he  had  brought  as  witnesses. 

The  kadee  told  him  of  what  his  brother  had  ac 
cused  him,  and  he  answered:  "O  kadee  full  of 
wisdom,  judge  not  before  thou  knowest  and  remem 
ber  the  saying  of  the  wise :  'Look  first  to  the  end 
of  whatever  thou  undertakest,  and  then  act  accord 
ingly/  Khassoum  is  indeed  my  brother,  but  he  is 
envious  of  my  riches  and  he  loves  me  not.  Give 
not  access  in  thy  heart  to  his  deceptions,  and  re 
member  the  words  of  the  Messenger — on  whom  be 
peace — that  lies  and  cunning  deceptions  are  the 
forerunners  of  the  accursed  work  of  Satan,  the  evil 
one.  Thou  art  just,  O  kadee,  and  the  dirt  of  lying 
deceptions  cannot  sully  the  hem  of  thy  white  gar 
ments  of  knowledge  and  wisdom.  Mohammed 


KHIZR  205 

Ed-Din,  these  are  my  witnesses,  six  merchants  of 
this  holy  town,  honored  by  every  one  and  wealthy 
in  the  world's  goods;  they  will  swear  to  thee  that 
they  have  known  this  woman  for  many  years  as  the 
favorite  inmate  of  my  harem." 

The  kadee  told  the  six  merchants  to  approach, 
and  the  first  merchant  said :  "Verily,  O  kadee,  I 
have  known  this  woman  for  long  years  as  the 
Fatima  of  the  Hadji's  harem.  Many  a  shawl  and 
many  a  cunningly  worked  rug  have  I  sold  to  her." 

The  second  merchant  said:  "O  kadee,  truth  is 
ever  its  own  defense.  This  is  the  woman  which 
long  ago  Nassim  brought  from  amongst  the  tribes. 
Many  a  yard  of  silk  have  I  spread  at  her  feet,  that 
she  might  choose  and  buy." 

The  third  merchant  said:  "It  is  she,  the  apple 
of  Nassim's  eye.  I  remember  well  how,  seven 
years  ago,  she  came  to  my  little  shop  in  the  bazaar, 
accompanied  by  two  black  attendants,  and  bought 
from  me  at  a  cheap  price,  be  it  said,  an  amber  neck 
lace  which  had  once  belonged  to  his  eminent  High 
ness,  the  great  Effendi  Bey  of  Tripoli." 

The  fourth  merchant  said:  "Trade  is  needful 
for  a  poor  man.  Of  me  Nassim  bought  slippers 
and  jewels  and  Turkish  sweets  when,  many  years 


206  WINGS 

ago,   he   paid  the   dower   to   the    father    of    this 


woman." 


The  fifth  merchant  said:  "I  am  an  ignorant 
man,  and  speech  does  not  come  readily  to  my  lips. 
But  may  I  never  enter  the  Christian  paradise  if  this 
is  not  the  shining  one  of  Nassim's  harem,  and  if 
she  has  not  bought  many  pounds  of  spices  and  sugar 
in  my  poor  shop." 

The  sixth  merchant  said :  "May  my  right  hand 
wither  as  does  the  thirsty  date-tree  when  the  well 
dries  up,  if  I  do  not  speak  the  truth ;  verily  I  declare 
that  this  is  the  well-beloved  favorite  woman  of 
Nassim's  household!  She  is  a  Bedawin,  and  ac 
cording  to  the  custom  of  the  tribesmen  she  came 
here  unveiled;  but  she  obeyed  her  master's  wishes, 
and  I  am  the  merchant  who  sold  to  her  the  first 
black  and  gold  Egyptian  veil,  to  hide  her  chaste 
features  from  the  impudent  glance  of  the  multi 
tude." 

Such  was  the  testimony  of  the  six  Giaour  mer 
chants,  and  the  kadee  was  puzzled;  and  though  he 
knew  in  the  inmost  chamber  of  his  heart  that  Khas- 
soum  was  speaking  the  truth,  he  did  not  know  how 
to  prove  it. 

He  thought  and  thought  and  thought,  O  you  chil- 


KHIZR  207 

dren  of  Arabs,  until  Ilyas,  the  great  Kutb,  heard 
his  praying  thoughts  and  left  his  abode  on  the  roof 
of  the  Kaabah  in  Mecca  to  fiy  across  the  Western 
desert  and  to  bring  to  Mohammed  Ed-Din  the  in 
spiration  which  he  needed.  Ilyas  spoke  to  the  soul 
of  the  kadee,  and  the  kadee  exclaimed :  "Hafiz, 
my  faithful  slave,  go  thou  to  the  house  of  Hadji 
Nassim  and  bring  to  me  the  dogs  which  belong  to 
his  household." 

The  slave  bowed  and  left,  and  soon  he  returned 
leading  on  a  chain  the  two  dogs  of  Nassim's  house, 
two  strong  Kabyle  dogs  with  black  bristly  hair  and 
huge  teeth. 

The  kadee  ordered  the  woman  to  confront  the 
dogs:  "If  thou  hast  been  in  Nassim's  harem  for 
long  years,  they  will  surely  recognize  thee."  She 
obeyed  trembling,  and  though  she  tried  her  best  to 
talk  to  them  with  sweet  words  and  gestures  of 
blandishment,  the  dogs  growled  at  her  and  showed 
their  teeth  and  proved  clearly  that  the  woman  was 
a  stranger  to  them. 

Then  the  wise  kadee  raised  his  hands  and  said: 
"Nassim,  and  thou,  woman  of  the  Bedawin,  I 
sentence  you  according  to  the  words  in  the  book  of 
the  Koran:  'If  any  of  the  true  believers  commit 


208  WINGS 

the  crime  of  adultery,  punish  them  both;  produce 
witnesses  against  them,  imprison  them  in  separate 
apartments  until  death  release  them,  or  Allah 
affordeth  them  a  way  to  escape/  And  you,  Greek 
infidels,  remember  the  words :  'Woe  be  unto  those 
who  give  false  testimony/  Ye  shall  have  your 
hands  and  feet  cut  off,  and  be  thrown  out  into  the 
yellow  desert,  until  Allah  takes  pity  on  you  and  re 
lieves  you  from  your  pains." 

Then  the  kadee  clapped  his  hands  and  slaves 
came,  and  they  took  Nassim  and  Mer-el-Nissar  and 
the  six  merchants  and  did  to  them  according  to  the 
judgment  of  the  kadee. 

Then  Mohammed  Ed-Din,  the  judge  who  was  as 
wise  as  Haroun-el-Rashid,  turned  to  the  men  who 
had  gathered  to  hear  him  administer  justice  and 
punishment,  and  said : 

"To-day  I  have  proved  that  the  testimony  of  two 
dogs  is  more  to  be  believed  than  the  testimony  of 
Nassim,  the  rich,  and  that  of  six  Greek  merchants." 

You  ask  me  what  became  of  Khassoum,  ye  sons 
of  Arabs  ? 

Khassoum  bowed  before  the  wise  judge  and 
praised  him,  and  then  he  turned  his  face  towards 


KHIZR  209 

Mecca ;  he  wandered  towards  the  rising  sun,  for  the 
voice  of  Khizr  was  still  whispering  into  his  ear: 
"Go  out  into  the  yellow  lands,  Khassoum  ibn  Taib, 
and  seek  on,  that  thou  ma  vest  find  Islam,  that  thou 
mayest  find  true  resignation." 

For  many  a  year,  he  wandered  in  the  wilderness, 
without  sandals  to  protect  his  blistering  feet,  fasting 
and  praying  and  avoiding  the  habitations  of  man 
kind,  until  he  had  become  a  holy  Welee,  a  master  in 
the  true  faith.  Khizr  was  always  before  him, 
spreading  his  great  silver  wings,  pointing  the  way 
like  a  shining  guiding  star  and  speaking  to  him  at 
dawn. 

Many  a  time  Eblis  and  his  host  of  evil  demons 
tried  to  tempt  him,  but  he  was  steadfast  and  prac 
ticed  self-denial  until  he  was  a  saint,  holier  than 
Esh-Shiblee  himself. 

One  day,  during  Dhu-l-Hijjeh,  the  holy  month  of 
pilgrimages,  he  wandered  from  the  mountains  into 
the  desert  until  he  came  to  the  caravan  road  which 
leads  from  Timbuctoo  to  the  oasis  of  the  Northern 
Sahara.  He  spread  his  ragged  bournous  and  lay 
down,  his  forehead  touching  the  ground,  and  for 
three  days  and  three  nights  he  did  not  sleep,  nor 
did  he  touch  food  or  drink,  but  he  repeated  over  and 


210  WINGS 

over  again  the  words  "La  ilah  illallah''  until  his 
mind  had  absorbed  the  deepest  meaning  of  Islam: 
There  is  no  God  but  the  God. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day,  Khizr  gently 
closed  his  eyes,  but  the  eyes  of  his  soul  were  wide 
open,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  in  the  court 
yard  of  a  huge  palace,  whose  roof  melted  dimly  into 
the  silvery  blueness  of  the  skies;  the  walls  of  the 
palace  were  of  pearl  and  red  jacinth  and  yellow 
gold;  and  wherever  he  turned  his  eyes,  he  saw 
written  on  these  walls  the  shining  words :  La  ilah 
illallah.  .  .  .  From  afar  he  could  hear  the  rippling 
waters  of  Selsebil,  the  river  that  flows  through 
Paradise,  and  he  felt  an  indescribable  happiness. 

And  Khizr  summoned  Azrael,  the  black-winged 
angel  of  death,  and  Azrael  came  and  kissed  lightly 
the  lips  of  Khassoum,  the  pilgrim,  the  son  of  Taib, 
the  Welee,  the  great  saint. 


FEAR 

THE  fact  that  the  man  whom  he  feared  had  died 
ten  years  earlier  did  not  in  the  least  lessen  Stuart 
McGregor's  obsession  of  horror,  of  a  certain  grim 
expectancy,  every  time  he  recalled  that  final  scene, 
just  before  Farragut  Hutchison  disappeared  in  the 
African  jungle  that  stood,  spectrally  motionless  as 
if  forged  out  of  some  blackish-green  metal,  in  the 
haggard  moonlight. 

As  he  reconstructed  it,  the  whole  scene  seemed 
unreal,  almost  oppressively,  ludicrously  theatrical. 
The  pall  of  sodden,  stygian  darkness  all  around; 
the  night  sounds  of  soft-winged,  obscene  things 
flapping  lazily  overhead  or  brushing  against  the 
furry  trees  that  held  the  woolly  heat  of  the  tropical 
day;  the  slimy,  swishy  things  that  glided  and 
crawled  and  wiggled  underfoot;  the  vibrant  growl 
of  a  hunting  lioness  that  began  in  a  deep  basso  and 
peaked  to  a  shrill  high-pitched,  ridiculously  inade 
quate  treble;  a  spotted  hyena's  vicious,  bluffing 

211 


212  WINGS 

bark;  the  chirp  and  whistle  of  innumerable 
monkeys;  a  warthog  breaking  through  the  under 
growth  with  clownish  crash — and  somewhere,  very 
far  away,  the  staccato  thumping  of  a  signal  drum, 
and  more  faintly  yet  the  answer  from  the  next  in 
line. 

He  had  seen  many  such  drums,  made  from  fire- 
hollowed  palm  trees  and  covered  with  tightly 
stretched  skin — often  the  skin  of  a  human  enemy. 

Yes.  He  remembered  it  all.  He  remembered 
the  night  jungle  creeping  in  on  their  camp  like  a 
sentient,  malign  being — and  then  that  ghastly, 
ironic  moon  squinting  down,  just  as  Farragut 
Hutchison  walked  away  between  the  six  giant, 
plumed,  ochre-smeared  Bakoto  negroes,  and  bring 
ing  into  crass  relief  the  tattoo  mark  on  the  man's 
back  where  the  shirt  had  been  torn  to  tatters  by 
camel  thorns  and  wait-a-bit  spikes  and  saber-shaped 
palm  leaves. 

He  recalled  the  occasion  when  Farragut  Hutchi 
son  had  had  himself  tattooed;  after  a  crimson, 
drunken  spree  at  Madam  Celeste's  place  in  Port 
Said,  the  other  side  of  the  Red  Sea  traders'  bazaar, 
to  please  a  half-caste  Swahili  dancing  girl  who 
looked  like  a  golden  madonna  of  evil,  familiar  with 


FEAR  213 

all  the  seven  sins.  Doubtless  the  girl  had  gone 
shares  with  the  Levantine  craftsman  who  had  done 
the  work — an  eagle,  in  bold  red  and  blue,  sur 
mounted  by  a  lopsided  crown,  and  surrounded  by  a 
wavy  design.  The  eagle  was  in  profile,  and  its 
single  eye  had  a  disconcerting  trick  of  winking 
sardonically  whenever  Farragut  Hutchison  moved 
his  back  muscles  or  twitched  his  shoulder  blades. 

Always,  in  his  memory,  Stuart  McGregor  saw 
that  tatoo  mark. 

Always  did  he  see  the  wicked,  leering  squint  in 
the  eagle's  eye — and  then  he  would  scream,  wher 
ever  he  happened  to  be — in  a  theater,  a  Broadway 
restaurant,  or  across  some  good  friend's  mahogany 
and  beef. 

Thinking  back,  he  remembered  that,  for  all  tkeir 
bravado,  for  all  their  showing  off  to  each  other, 
both  he  and  Farragut  Hutchison  had  been  afraid 
since  that  day  up  the  hinterland  when,  drunk  with 
fermented  palm-wine,  they  had  insulted  the  fetish 
of  the  Bakotos,  while  the  men  were  away  hunting 
and  none  left  to  guard  the  village  except  the  women 
and  children  and  a  few  feeble  old  men  whose  curses 
and  high-pitched  maledictions  were  picturesque,  but 
hardly  effectual  enough  to  stop  him  and  his  partner 


214  WINGS 

from  doing  a  vulgar,  intoxicated  dance  in  front  of 
the  idol,  from  grinding  burning  cigar  ends  into  its 
squat,  repulsive  features,  and  from  generally  pol 
luting  the  juju  hut — not  to  speak  of  the  thorough 
and  profitable  looting  of  the  place. 

They  had  got  away  with  the  plunder,  gold  dust 
and  a  handful  of  splendid  canary  diamonds,  before 
the  Bakoto  warriors  had  returned.  But  fear  had 
followed  them,  stalked  them,  trailed  them;  a  fear 
different  from  any  they  had  ever  experienced  be 
fore.  And  be  it  mentioned  that  their  path  of  life 
had  been  crimson  and  twisted  and  fantastic,  that 
they  had  followed  the  little  squinting  swart-headed, 
hunchbacked  djinni  of  adventure  wherever  man's 
primitive  lawlessness  rules,  from  Nome  to  Tim 
buktu,  from  Peru  to  the  black  felt  tents  of  Outer 
Mongolia,  from  the  Australian  bush  to  the  absinth- 
sodden  apache  haunts  of  Paris.  Be  it  mentioned, 
furthermore,  that  thus,  often,  they  had  stared  death 
in  the  face  and,  not  being  fools,  had  found  the  star 
ing  distasteful  and  shivery. 

But  what  they  had  felt  on  that  journey,  back  to 
the  security  of  the  coast  and  the  ragged  Union  Jack 
flapping  disconsolately  above  the  British  governor's 
official  corrugated  iron  mansion,  had  been  some- 


FEAR  215 

thing  worse  than  mere  physical  fear ;  it  had  been  a 
nameless,  brooding,  sinister  apprehension  which 
had  crept  through  their  souls,  a  harshly  discordant 
note  that  had  pealed  through  the  hidden  recesses  of 
their  beings. 

Everything  had  seemed  to  mock  them — the 
crawling,  sour-miasmic  jungle;  the  slippery  roots 
and  timber  falls;  the  sun  of  the  tropics,  brown,  de 
cayed,  like  the  sun  on  the  Day  of  Judgment;  the 
very  flowers,  spiky,  odorous,  waxen,  unhealthy, 
lascivious. 

At  night,  when  they  had  rested  in  some  clearing, 
they  had  even  feared  their  own  camp  fire — flaring 
up,  twinkling,  flickering,  then  coiling  into  a  ruby 
ball.  It  had  seemed  completely  isolated  in  the  pur 
ple  night. 

Isolated ! 

How  they  had  longed  for  human  companionship 
— white  companionship! 

White  faces.  White  slang.  White  curses. 
White  odors.  White  obscenities. 

.Why — they  would  have  welcomed  a  decent, 
square,  honest  white  murder;  a  knife  flashing  in 
some  yellow-haired  Norse  sailor's  brawny  fist;  a 
belaying  pin  in  the  hand  of  some  bullying  Liverpool 


216  WINGS 

tramp-ship  skipper;  some  Nome  gambler's  six-gun 
splattering  leaden  death ;  some  apache  of  the  Rue  de 
Venise  garroting  a  passerby. 

But  here,  in  the  African  jungle — and  how  Stuart 
McGregor  remembered  it — the  fear  of  death  had 
seemed  pregnant  with  unmentionable  horror. 
There  had  been  no  sounds  except  the  buzzing  of  the 
tsetse  flies  and  a  faint  rubbing  of  drums,  whisper 
ing  through  the  desert  and  jungle  like  the  voices  of 
disembodied  souls,  astray  on  the  outer  rim  of  crea 
tion. 

And,  overhead,  the  stars.  Always,  at  night, 
three  stars,  glittering,  leering;  and  Stuart  Mc 
Gregor,  who  had  gone  through  college  and  had  once 
written  his  college  measure  of  limping,  anemic 
verse,  had  pointed  at  them. 

"The  three  stars  of  Africa !"  he  had  said.  "The 
star  of  violence !  The  star  of  lust !  And  the  little 
stinking  star  of  greed !" 

Then  had  McGregor  broken  into  staccato 
laughter  which  had  struck  Farragut  Hutchison  as 
singularly  out  of  place  and  had  caused  him  to  blurt 
forth  with  a  wicked  curse : 

"Shut  your  trap,  you " 

For  already  they  had  begun  to  quarrel,  those  two 


FEAR  217 

pals  of  a  dozen  tight,  riotous  adventures.  Already, 
imperceptibly,  gradually,  like  the  shadow  of  a  leaf 
through  summer  dusk,  a  mutual  hatred  had  grown 
up  between  them. 

But  they  had  controlled  themselves.  The  dia 
monds  were  good,  could  be  sold  at  a  big  figure ;  and, 
even  split  in  two,  would  mean  a  comfortable 
stake. 

Then,  quite  suddenly,  had  come  the  end — the  end 
for  one  of  them. 

And  the  twisting,  gliding  skill  of  Stuart  Mc 
Gregor's  fingers  had  made  sure  that  Farragut 
Hutchison  should  be  that  one. 

Years  after,  when  Africa  as  a  whole  had  faded 
to  a  memory  of  coiling,  unclean  shadows,  Stuart 
McGregor  used  to  say,  with  that  rather  plaintive, 
monotonous  drawl  of  his,  that  the  end  of  this 
phantasmal  African  adventure  had  been  different 
from  what  he  had  expected  it  to  be. 

In  a  way,  he  had  found  it  disappointing. 

Not  that  it  had  lacked  in  purely  dramatic  thrills 
and  blood-curdling  trimmings.  That  wasn't  it. 
On  the  contrary,  it  had  had  a  plethora  of  thrills. 

But,  rather,  he  must  have  been  keyed  up  to  too 
high  a  pitch ;  must  have  expected  too  much,  feared 


218  WINGS 

too  much  during  that  journey  from  the  Bakoto  vil 
lage  back  through  the  hinterland. 

Thus  when,  one  night,  the  Bakoto  warriors  had 
come  from  nowhere,  out  of  the  jungle,  hundreds  of 
them,  silent,  as  if  the  wilderness  had  spewed  them 
forth,  it  was  all  quite  prosy. 

Prosy,  too,  had  been  the  expectation  of  death. 
It  had  even  seemed  a  welcome  relief  from  the 
straining  fatigues  of  the  jungle  pull,  the  recurrent 
fits  of  fever,  the  flying  and  crawling  pests,  the 
gnawing  moroseness  which  is  so  typically  African. 

"An  explosion  of  life  and  hatred/*  Stuart  Mc 
Gregor  used  to  say,  "that's  what  I  had  expected, 
don't  you  see?  Quick  and  merciless.  And  it 
wasn't.  For  the  end  came — slow  and  inevitable. 
Stolid.  Greek  in  a  way.  And  so  courtly!  So 
polite !  That  was  the  worst  of  it !" 

For  the  leader  of  the  Bakotos,  a  tall,  broad, 
frizzy,  odorous  warrior,  with  a  face  like  a  black 
Nero  with  a  dash  of  Manchu  emperor,  had  bowed 
before  them  with  a  great  clanking  of  barbarous 
ornaments.  There  had  been  no  marring  taint  of 
hatred  in  his  voice  as  he  told  them  that  they  must 
pay  for  their  insults  to  the  fetish.  He  had  not  even 
mentioned  the  theft  of  the  gold  dust  and  diamonds. 


FEAR  219 

"My  heart  is  heavy  at  the  thought,  white  chiefs," 
he  said.  "But — you  must  pay !" 

Stuart  McGregor  had  stammered  ineffectual, 
foolish  apologies: 

"We — we  were  drunk.  We  didn't  know  what — 
or — what  we " 

"What  you  were  doing!"  the  Bakoto  had  finished 
the  sentence  for  him,  with  a  little  melancholy  sigh. 
"And  there  is  forgiveness  in  my  heart " 

"You — you  mean  to  say "  Farragut  Hutchi 
son  had  jumped  up,  with  extended  hand,  blurting 
out  hectic  thanks. 

"Forgiveness  in  my  heart,  not  in  the  juju's," 
gently  continued  the  negro.  "For  the  juju  never 
forgives.  On  the  other  hand,  the  juju  is  fair.  He 
wants  his  just  measure  of  blood.  Not  an  ounce 
more.  Therefore,"  the  Bakoto  had  gone  on,  and 
his  face  had  been  as  stony  and  as  passionless  as  that 
of  the  Buddha  who  meditates  in  the  shade  of  the 
cobra's  hood,  "the  choice  will  be  yours." 

"Choice?"  Farragut  Hutchison  had  looked  up,  a 
gleam  of  hope  in  his  eyes. 

"Yes.  Choice  which  one  of  you  will  die."  The 
Bakoto  had  smiled,  with  the  same  suave  courtliness 
which  had,  somehow,  increased  the  utter  horror  of 


220  WINGS 

the  scene.  "Die — oh — a  slow  death,  befitting  the 
insult  to  the  juju,  befitting  the  juju's  great  holi 
ness!" 

Suddenly,  Stuart  McGregor  had  understood  that 
there  would  be  no  arguing,  no  bargaining  whatso 
ever  ;  quickly,  had  come  his  hysterical  question. 

"Who?     I— or " 

He  had  slurred  and  stopped,  somehow  ashamed, 
and  the  Bakoto  had  finished  the  interrupted  ques 
tion  with  gentle,  gliding,  inhuman  laughter: 
"Your  friend?  White  chief,  that  is  for  you  two 
to  decide.  I  only  know  that  the  juju  has  spoken 
to  the  priest,  and  that  he  is  satisfied  with  the  life 
of  one  of  you  two;  the  life — and  the  death.  A 
slow  death." 

He  had  paused;  then  had  continued  gently,  so 
very,  very  gently:  "Yes.  A  slow  death,  depend 
ing  entirely  upon  the  vitality  of  the  one  of  you  two 
who  will  be  sacrificed  to  the  juju.  There  will  be 
little  knives.  There  will  be  the  flying  insects  which 
follow  the  smell  of  blood  and  festering  flesh.  Too, 
there  will  be  many,  crimson-headed  ants,  many 
ants — and  a  thin  river  of  honey  to  show  them  the 
trail." 

He  had  yawned.     Then  he  had  gone  on :     "Con- 


FEAR  221 

sider.  The  juju  is  just.  He  only  wants  the  sacri 
fice  of  one  of  you,  and  you  yourselves  must  decide 
which  one  shall  go,  and  which  one  shall  stay.  And 
• — remember  the  little,  little  knives.  Be  pleased  to 
remember  the  many  ants  which  follow  the  honey 
trail.  I  shall  return  shortly  and  hear  your  choice." 

He  had  bowed  and,  with  his  silent  warriors,  had 
stepped  back  into  the  jungle  that  had  closed  behind 
them  like  a  curtain. 

Even  in  that  moment  of  stark,  enormous  horror, 
horror  too  great  to  be  grasped,  horror  that  swept 
over  and  beyond  the  barriers  of  fear — even  in  that 
moment  Stuart  McGregor  had  realized  that,  by 
leaving  the  choice  to  them,  the  Bakoto  had  com 
mitted  a  refined  cruelty  worthy  of  a  more  civilized 
race,  and  had  added  a  psychic  torture  fully  as 
dreadful  as  the  physical  torture  of  the  little 
knives. 

Too,  in  that  moment  of  ghastly  expectancy,  he 
had  known  that  it  was  Farragut  Hutchison  who 
would  be  sacrificed  to  the  juju — Farragut  Hutchi 
son  who  sat  there,  staring  into  the  camp  fire,  mak 
ing  queer  little,  funny  noises  in  his  throat. 

Suddenly,  Stuart  McGregor  had  laughed — he  re 
membered  that  laugh  to  his  dying  day — and  had 


222  WINGS 

thrown  a  greasy  pack  of  playing  cards  into  the 
circle  of  meager,  indifferent  light. 

"Let  the  cards  decide,  old  boy,"  he  had  shouted. 
"One  hand  of  poker — and  no  drawing  to  your  hand. 
Show-down!  That's  square,  isn't  it?" 

"Sure!"  the  other  had  replied,  still  staring 
straight  ahead  of  him.  "Go  ahead  and  deal " 

His  voice  had  drifted  into  a  mumble  while  Stuart 
McGregor  had  picked  up  the  deck,  had  shuffled, 
slowly,  mechanically. 

As  he  shuffled,  it  had  seemed  to  him  as  if  his 
brain  was  frantically  telegraphing  to  his  fingers,  as 
if  all  those  delicate  little  nerves  that  ran  from  the 
back  of  his  skull  down  to  his  finger  tips  were  throb 
bing  a  clicking  little  chorus : 

"Do— it— Mac!  Do— it— Mac!  Do  it— Mac!" 
with  a  maddening,  syncopated  rhythm. 

He  had  kept  on  shuffling,  had  kept  on  watching 
the  motions  of  his  fingers — and  had  seen  that  his 
thumb  and  second  finger  had  shuffled  the  ace  of 
hearts  to  the  bottom  of  the  deck. 

Had  he  done  that  on  purpose?  He  did  not  know 
then.  He  never  found  out — though,  in  his  mem 
ory,  he  lived  through  the  scene  a  thousand  times. 

But  there  were  the  little  knives.     There  were  the 


FEAR  223 

ants.  There  was  the  honey  trail.  There  was  his 
own,  hard  decision  to  live.  And,  years  earlier,  he 
had  been  a  professional  faro  dealer  at  Silver  City. 

Another  ace  had  joined  the  first  at  the  bottom  of 
the  deck.  The  third.  The  fourth. 

And  then  Farragut  Hutchison's  violent:  "Deal, 
man,  deal !  You're  driving  me  crazy.  Get  it  over 
with." 

The  sweat  had  been  pouring  from  Stuart  Mc 
Gregor's  face.  His  blood  had  throbbed  in  his 
veins.  Something  like  a  sledge  hammer  had 
drummed  at  the  base  of  his  skull. 

"Cut,  won't  you?"  he  had  said,  his  voice  coming 
as  if  from  very  far  away. 

The  other  had  waved  a  trembling  hand.  "No, 
no !  Deal  'em  as  they  are.  You  won't  cheat  me." 

Stuart  McGregor  had  cleared  a  little  space  on  the 
ground  with  the  point  of  his  shoe. 

He  remembered  the  motion.  He  remembered 
how  the  dead  leaves  had  stirred  with  a  dry,  rasp 
ing,  tragic  sound,  how  something  slimy  and  phos 
phorous-green  had  squirmed  through  the  tufted 
jungle  grass,  how  a  little  furry  scorpion  had 
scurried  away  with  a  clicking  tchk-tchk-tchk. 

He  had  dealt. 


224  WINGS 

Mechanically,  even  as  he  was  watching  them,  his 
fingers  had  given  himself  five  cards  from  the 
bottom  of  the  deck,  four  aces — and  the  queen  of 
diamonds.  And,  the  next  second,  in  answer  to 
Farragut  Hutchison's  choked:  "Show-down!  I 
have  two  pair — kings — and  jacks!"  his  own  well 
simulated  shriek  of  joy  and  triumph : 

"I  win!  Fve  four  aces!  Every  ace  in  the 
pack!" 

And  then  Farragut  Hutchison's  weak,  ridiculous 
exclamation — ridiculous  considering  the  dreadful 
fate  that  awaited  him : 

"Geewhittaker!  You're  some  lucky  guy,  aren't 
you,  Mac?" 

At  the  same  moment  the  Bakoto  chief  had 
stepped  out  of  the  jungle,  followed  by  half  a  dozen 
warriors. 

Then  the  final  scene — that  ghastly,  ironic  moon 
squinting  down,  just  as  Farragut  Hutchison  had 
walked  away  between  the  giant,  plumed,  ocher- 
smeared  Bakoto  negroes,  bringing  into  stark  relief 
the  tattoo  mark  on  his  back  where  the  shirt  had 
been  torn  to  tatters — and  the  leering,  evil  wink  in 
the  eagle's  eye  as  Farragut  Hutchison  twitched  his 
shoulder  blades  with  absurd,  nervous  resignation. 


FEAR  225 

Stuart  McGregor  remembered  it  every  day  of  his 
life. 

He  spoke  of  it  to  many.  But  only  to  Father 
Aloysius  O'Donnell,  the  priest  who  officiated  in  the 
little  Gothic  church  around  the  corner,  on  Ninth 
Avenue,  did  he  tell  the  whole  truth — did  he  confess 
that  he  had  cheated. 

"Of  course  I  cheated!'*  he  said.  "Of  course!" 
And,  with  a  sort  of  mocking  bravado;  "What 
would  you  have  done,  padre  ?" 

The  priest,  who  was  old  and  wise  and  gentle, 
thus  not  at  all  sure  of  himself,  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied.     "I  don't  know." 

"Well — I  do  know.  You  would  have  done  what 
I  did.  You  wouldn't  have  been  able  to  help  your 
self."  Then,  in  a  low  voice:  "And  you  would 
have  paid!  As  I  pay— every  day,  every  minute, 
every  second  of  my  life." 

"Regret,  repentance,"  murmured  the  priest,  but 
the  other  cut  him  short. 

"Repentance — nothing.  I  regret  nothing!  I 
repent  nothing!  I'd  do  the  same  to-morrow.  It 
isn't  that— oh — that — what  d'ye  call  it — sting  of 
conscience,  that's  driving  me  crazy.  It's  fear !" 

"Fear  of  what?"  asked  Father  O'Donnell. 


226  WINGS 

"Fear  of  Farragut  Hutchison — who  is  dead !" 

Ten  years  ago ! 

And  he  knew  that  Farragut  Hutchison  had  died. 
For  not  long  afterward  a  British  trader  had  come 
upon  certain  gruesome  but  unmistakable  remains 
and  had  brought  the  tale  to  the  coast.  Yet  was 
there  fear  in  Stuart  McGregor's  soul,  fear  worse 
than  the  fear  of  the  little  knives.  Fear  of  Farragut 
Hutchison  who  was  dead  ? 

No.  He  did  not  believe  that  the  man  was  dead. 
He  did  not  believe  it,  could  not  believe  it. 

"And  even  suppose  he's  dead,"  he  used  to  say  to 
the  priest,  "he'll  get  me.  He'll  get  me  as  sure  as 
you're  born.  I  saw  it  in  the  eye  of  that  eagle — the 
squinting  eye  of  that  infernal,  tattooed  eagle !" 

Then  he  would  turn  a  grayish  yellow,  his  whole 
body  would  tremble  with  a  terrible  palsy  and  in  a 
sort  of  whine,  which  was  both  ridiculous  and  pa 
thetic,  given  his  size  and  bulk,  given  the  crimson, 
twisted  adventures  through  which  he  had  passed,  he 
would  exclaim: 

"He'll  get  me.  He'll  get  me.  He'll  get  me  even 
from  beyond  the  grave." 


FEAR  227 

And  then  Father  O'Donnell  would  cross  himself 
rapidly,  just  a  little  guiltily. 

It  is  said  that  there  is  a  morbid  curiosity  which 
forces  the  murderer  to  view  the  place  of  his  crime. 

Some  psychic  reason  of  the  same  kind  may  have 
caused  Stuart  McGregor  to  decorate  the  walls  and 
corners  of  his  sitting  room  with  the  memories  of 
that  Africa  which  he  feared  and  hated,  and  which, 
daily,  he  was  trying  to  forget — with  a  shimmering, 
cruel  mass  of  jungle  curios,  sjamboks  and  assegais, 
signal  drums  and  daggers,  knobkerries  and  rhino 
shields  and  what  not. 

Steadily,  he  added  to  his  collection,  buying  in 
auction  rooms,  in  little  shops  on  the  water  front, 
from  sailors  and  ship  pursers  and  collectors  who 
had  duplicates  for  sale. 

He  became  a  well-known  figure  in  the  row  of 
antique  stores  in  back  of  Madison  Square  Garden, 
and  was  so  liberal  when  it  came  to  payment  that 
Morris  Newman,  who  specialized  in  African  curios, 
would  send  the  pick  of  all  the  new  stuff  he  bought 
to  his  house. 

It  was  on  a  day  in  August — one  of  those  tropical 
New  York  days  when  the  very  birds  gasp  for  air, 


228  WINGS 

when  orange-flaming  sun  rays  drop  from  the  brazen 
sky  like  crackling  spears  and  the  melting  asphalt 
picks  them  up  again  and  tosses  them  high — that 
Stuart  McGregor,  returning  from  a  short  walk, 
found  a  large,  round  package  in  his  sitting  room. 

"Mr.  Newman  sent  it,"  his  servant  explained. 
"He  said  it's  a  rare  curio,  and  he's  sure  you'll  like 
it." 

"All  right." 

The  servant  bowed,  left,  and  closed  the  door, 
while  Stuart  McGregor  cut  the  twine,  unwrapped 
the  paper,  looked. 

And  then,  suddenly,  he  screamed  with  fear;  and, 
just  as  suddenly,  the  scream  of  fear  turned  into  a 
scream  of  maniacal  joy. 

For  the  thing  which  Newman  had  sent  him  was 
an  African  signal  drum,  covered  with  tightly 
stretched  skin — human  skin — white  skin!  And 
square  in  the  center  there  was  a  tattoo  mark — 
an  eagle  in  red  and  blue,  surmounted  by  a  lopsided 
crown,  and  surrounded  by  a  wavy  design. 

Here  was  the  final  proof  that  Farragut  Hutchison 
was  dead,  that,  forever,  he  was  rid  of  his  fear.  In 
a  paroxysm  of  joy,  he  picked  up  the  drum  and 
clutched  it  to  his  heart. 


FEAR  229 

He  gave  a  cry  of  pain.  His  lips  quivered, 
frothed.  His  hands  dropped  the  drum  and  fanned 
the  air,  and  he  looked  at  the  thing  that  had  fastened 
itself  to  his  right  wrist. 

It  seemed  like  a  short  length  of  rope,  grayish  in 
color,  spotted  with  dull  red.  Even  as  Stuart  Mc 
Gregor  dropped  to  the  floor,  dying,  he  knew  what 
had  happened. 

A  little  venomous  snake,  an  African  fer-de-lance, 
that  had  been  curled  up  in  the  inside  of  the  drum, 
numbed  by  the  cold,  had  been  revived  by  the  splin 
tering  heat  of  New  York. 

Yes — even  as  he  died  he  knew  what  had  hap 
pened.  Even  as  he  died,  he  saw  that  malign, 
obscene  squint  in  the  eagle's  eye.  Even  as  he  died, 
he  knew  that  Farragut  Hutchison  had  killed  him — 
from  beyond  the  grave! 


LIGHT 

BENEATH  the  sooty  velvet  of  the  New  York 
night,  Tompkins  Square  was  a  blotch  of  lonely, 
mean  sadness. 

No  night  loungers  there  waiting  for  a  bluecoat's 
hickory  to  tickle  their  thin  patched  soles ;  no  wizen 
news  vendor  spreading  the  remnants  of  his  printed 
wares  about  him  and  figuring  out  the  difference 
between  gain  on  papers  sold  and  discount  on  those 
to  be  returned;  no  Greek  hawker  considering  the 
advisability  of  beating  the  high  cost  of  living  by 
supping  on  those  figs  which  he  had  not  been  able  to 
sell  because  of  their  antiquity;  no  maudlin  drunk 
mistaking  the  blur  in  his  whisky-soaked  brain  for 
the  happy  twilight  of  the  foggy  green  isle. 

For  Tcmpkins  Square  is  both  the  soul  and  the 
stomach — possibly  interchangeable  terms — of  those 
who  work  with  cloth  and  silk  and  shoddy  worsted, 
with  needle  and  thread,  with  thimble  and  sewing- 
machine,  those  who  out  of  their  starved,  haggard 
East-Side  brains  make  the  American  women — the 

231 


232  WINGS 

native-born — the  best  dressed  in  all  the  world. 
Sweatshop  workers  they  are :  men  from  Russia  and 
Poland,  men  from  the  Balkans,  from  Sicily,  Cala 
bria,  and  Asia  Minor;  men  who  set  out  on  their 
splendid  American  adventure,  not  for  liberty,  but 
for  a  chance  to  earn  enough  to  keep  body  and  soul 
together — and  let  the  ward  boss  and  the  ward  as 
sociation  attenil  to  the  voting,  including  the  more 
or  less  honest  counting  of  votes. 

Work — eat — sleep — and  lights  out  at  ten!  Such 
is  the  maxim  of  the  neighborhood,  since  lights  cost 
money,  and  money  buys  food. 

Thus  Tompkins  Square  on  that  night,  as  on  all 
nights,  was  sad  and  dark  and  tired  and  asleep. 
Just  the  scraggly,  dusty  trees,  the  empty  benches, 
and  a  shy  gleam  of  the  half -veiled  moon  where  it 
struck  the  fantastic,  twisted  angle  of  a  battered 
municipal  waste-paper  receptacle,  or  a  bit  of  broken 
bottle  glass  half  hidden  in  a  murky  puddle. 

On  the  north  side  of  the  square  stood  the  tene 
ment  house  with  the  lighted  window — like  a  wink 
ing  eye — directly  beneath  the  roof,  high  up.  The 
house  was  gray  and  pallid;  incongruously  baroque 
in  spots,  distributed  irregularly  over  its  warty 
facade,  where  the  contractor  had  got  rid  of  some 


LIGHT  233 

art  balconies  and  carved  near-stone  struts  left  over 
from  a  bankrupt  Bronx  job.  It  towered  over  the 
smug  red-brick  dwellings — remnants  of  an  age 
when  English  and  German  were  still  spoken  there 
abouts — with  thin,  anemic  arrogance,  like  a  tuber 
cular  giant  among  a  lot  of  short,  stocky,  well- 
fleshed  people,  sick,  yet  conscious  of  his  height  and 
the  dignity  that  goes  with  it. 

He  saw  the  lighted  window  as  he  crossed  the 
square  from  the  south  side,  and  sat  down  on  one  of 
the  benches  and  stared  at  it. 

Steadily  he  stared,  until  his  eyes  smarted  and 
burned  and  his  neck  muscles  bunched  painfully. 

For  that  glimmering  light,  gilding  the  fly-specked 
pane,  meant  to  him  the  things  he  hated,  the  things 
he  had  cheated  and  cursed  and  ridiculed — and,  by 
the  same  token,  longed  for  and  loved. 

It  meant  to  him,  life — and  the  reasons  of  life. 

It  meant  to  him  humanity  and  the  faith  of  hu 
manity:  which  is  happiness.  The  right  to  happi 
ness  !  The  eternal,  sacerdotal  duty  of  happiness ! 

Happiness  ? 

He  laughed.  Why — damn  it! — happiness  was  a 
lie.  Happiness  was  hypocrisy.  It  meant  the  diet- 


234  WINGS 

ing  of  man's  smoldering,  natural  passions  into  an 
artificial,  pinchbeck,  thin-blooded  puritanism.  It 
spelled  the  mumming  of  the  thinking  mind — the 
mind  that  was  trying  to  think — into  the  speciosities 
of  childish  fairy-tales.  It  was  a  sniveling  reminder 
of  pap-fed  infancy. 

The  only  thing  worth  while  in  life  was  success — 
which  is  selfishness.  Selfishness  sprawling  stark- 
contoured  and  unashamed,  sublimely  unself -con 
scious,  serenely  brutal — a  five-plied  Nietzscheism 
on  a  modern  business  basis  which  acknowledges 
neither  codified  laws  nor  principles. 

It  had  been  the  measure  and  route  of  his  life,  and 
— he  whipped  out  the  thought  like  something 
shameful  and  nasty,  like  a  nauseating  drug  which 
his  mind  refused  to  swallow — it  had  cheated  him. 

Yes,  by  God !     It  had  cheated  him,  cheated  him ! 

For,  first,  it  had  given  him  gold  and  power  and 
the  envy  of  men,  which  was  sweet. 

Then,  as  a  jest  of  Fate's  own  black  brewing,  it 
had  taken  everything  away  from  him  overnight,  in 
one  huge  financial  crash,  and  had  made  of  him  what 
he  was  to-night:  gray,  middle-aged,  bitter,  joyless — 
and  a  pauper.  It  had  brought  him  here,  to  Tomp- 
kins  Square,  and  had  chucked  him,  like  a  worn-out, 


LIGHT  235 

useless  rag,  into  this  dusty,  sticky  bench  whence  he 
was  staring  at  the  lighted  window,  high  up. 

He  wondered  what  was  behind  it,  and  who  ? 

Three  days  earlier  he  had  come  to  New  York 
with  ten  dollars — his  last  ten  dollars — in  his  pocket. 
He  had  taken  a  room  in  this  tenement-house,  and 
every  night  he  had  sat  on  the  bench  and  had  stared 
at  the  warty,  baroque  fa9ade. 

Always  it  had  been  dark.  Always  the  tenants, 
the  hard-working  people  who  lived  there,  had 
turned  out  their  lights  around  ten  o'clock  with 
an  almost  military  regularity  that  reminded 
him  of  barracks  and  a  well-disciplined  boarding- 
school. 

He  knew  most  of  them.  For  they  had  talked  to 
him,  on  stairs  and  landings  and  leaning  from  win 
dows,  with  the  easy  garrulousness  of  the  very  poor 
who  can't  be  snobs  since  they  are  familiar  with  each 
other's  incomes  and  flesh-pots.  They  had  lifted  the 
crude-meshed  veils  of  their  hearts  and  hearths  and 
had  bidden  him  look — and  all  he  had  seen  had  been 
misery. 

He  checked  the  thought. 

No !     That  wasn't  true ! 

He  had  also  seen  love  and  friendship,  and  fine, 


236  WINGS 

sweet  faith — and  that  was  why  he  hated  them — 
why  he  pitied  and  despised  them. 

Faith — love — friendship!  To  the  devil  with  the 
sniveling,  weak-kneed  lot  of  'em!  They  spelled 
happiness — and  happiness  did  not  exist — and — 

Happiness ! 

The  thought,  the  word,  recurred  to  his  brain  witH 
maddening  persistency.  It  would  not  budge. 

Happiness. 

"Why,  happiness  is  behind  that  lighted  window !" 
The  idea  came  to  him — almost  the  conviction. 

But  what  happiness?     And  whose? 

He  speculated  who  might  be  up  there,  in  the 
garret  room  squeezed  by  the  flat  roof.  He  tried 
to  picture  to  himself  what  might  be  shimmering  be 
hind  that  golden  flash. 

Perhaps  it  was  Fedor  Davidoff,  the  little  huncK- 
backed  Russian  tailor,  with  the  fat,  golden-haired, 
sloe-eyed  wife.  He  might  be  celebrating  the  com 
ing  of  freedom  to  his  beloved  Russia.  Or  he  might 
be  sitting  up  late  to  finish  some  piece  of  work — to 
earn  extra  money.  For  his  wife  was  expecting  a 
child.  He  had  three  already,  curly-haired,  straight- 
backed.  But  he  wanted  more- — "children  make 
happiness,  eh  ?"  he  used  to  say. 


LIGHT  237 

Or — wait!  Perhaps  it  was  Peter  Macdonald, 
the  artist,  dreaming  over  his  lamp  and  his  rank, 
blackened  pipe,  and  deliberating  with  himself  where 
he  would  live — upper  West  Side  or  lower  Fifth — 
when  the  world  should  have  acknowledged  his 
genius  and  backed  up  the  opinion  with  solid  cash. 
Peter  had  lived  now  for  over  three  months  in  the 
tenement-house.  "Like  the  neighborhood — bully 
atmosphere — marvelous  greens  and  browns,"  was 
the  reason  he  gave.  But  the  other  tenants  smiled. 
They  knew  that  Peter  lived  there  because  his  room 
cost  him  only  two  dollars  a  week,  and  because  he 
took  his  meals  with  the  Leibl  Finkelsteins  on  the 
first  floor  for  three  dollars  more. 

Perhaps  a  pair  of  lovers.  Enrique  Tassetti,  the 
squat,  laughing  Sicilian,  who  had  taken  to  himself 
a  bride  of  his  own  people.  They  would  have  spent 
fifty  cents  for  a  bottle  of  Chianti,  another  fifty  for 
bread  and  mushrooms  and  oil  and  pepper  to  turn 
into  a  dish  worthy  of  a  Sicilian — or  a  king. 

Again  it  might  be  Donchian,  the  Armenian,  burn 
ing  the  midnight  oil  over  the  perfection  of  the 
mysterious  invention  of  which  he  spoke  at  times, 
after  having  worked  with  needle  and  thread  since 
six  o'clock  in  the  morning;  or  old  Mrs.  Sarah 


238  WINGS 

Kempinsky,  reading  and  rereading  the  letter  which 
her  soldier  son  had  sent  her  from  France;  or — 

What  did  it  matter? 

Whoever  was  sitting  behind  that  lighted  window 
was  happy — happy — and  the  man's  imagination 
choked,  his  mind  became  flushed  and  congested. 

He  was  quite  unconscious  of  his  surroundings. 
The  stillness  of  the  streets  seemed  magical,  the  lone 
liness  absolute.  Only  from  very  far  came  sounds: 
the  Elevated  rattling  with  a  steely,  throaty  sob;  a 
surface-car  clanking  and  wheezing;  a  hoarse  Klaxon 
blaring  snobbishly;  a  stammering,  alcoholic  voice 
throwing  the  tail-end  of  a  gutter  song  to  the  moist 
purple  veils  of  the  night. 

But  he  did  not  hear. 

He  was  conscious  only  of  the  lighted  window, 
high  up.  It  seemed  to  glitter  nervously,  to  call  to 
him,  to  stretch  out,  as  if  trying  to  communicate  to 
him  an  emotion  it  had  borrowed  by  contact  with 
something — with  somebody. 

That  was  just  the  trouble.  He  wondered  who 
that  Somebody  was,  what  that  Something  might  be. 
Whoever  it  was,  it  seemed  urgent,  clamorous. 
Silently  clamorous.  His  subconsciousness  grew 


LIGHT  239 

thick  with  amazement  and  wonder  and  doubt.     It 
surged  up — crowded,  choking,  tumultuous. 

The  lighted  window! 

^What  was  behind  it?     What  was  its  riddle? 

He  knew  that  he  must  find  out,  and  so  he  rose, 
crossed  the  street,  entered  the  house,  and  was  up 
the  stairs  three  steps  at  the  time. 

He  found  the  room  without  any  trouble  and 
opened  the  door.  He  did  not  knock. 

He  stepped  inside;  and  there,  on  the  bed,  he  saw 
a  motionless  figure,  faintly  outlined  beneath  a  plain 
white  sheet,  a  tall  candle  burning  yellow  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed,  another  at  the  head. 

He  crossed  over,  lifted  a  corner  of  the  sheet,  and 
looked.  And  he  saw  the  face  of  a  dead  man.  It 
was  calm  and  serene  and  unutterably  happy. 

Then  it  dawned  upon  him : 

The  man  on  the  bed  was  himself. 

THE  END 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
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